Twilight's Dawn
by Morgase Merrilin
Summary: This is a continuation of Ann Bishop's Black Jewels Trilogy, with bits of The Invisable Ring thrown in. It's wierd, but please humor me! Do the right thing and review, or I'll discontinue the story(I'm desperate for reviews, people).
1. Alone

Chapter 1  
  
Nineteen years after the end of the Black Jewels Trilogy  
  
1/Tereille  
  
Lorn was tall and lean; his face almost beautiful, though extremely handsome might have been a better way of putting it. He had shaggy dark blond hair, and sapphire eyes, eyes that, for some reason, drove women wild. But he was only seventeen. Still a boy, still only wearing his Birthright Jewel. But he had been taken from his home as a young boy, a mere six, and forced to come to Tereille, where he was later trained as a pleasure slave. During the day, he fawned and bowed to witches not as strong as him. During the night…  
  
The night…he stifled a growl.  
  
He barely remembered his father, but he had probably worn a dark Jewel, since Lorn wore the Gray as a Birthright. No one wore the Gray as a Birthright; Red was the darkest Birthright Jewel. Most people couldn't cope with wearing such a dark Jewel so young, but Lorn could. The boy assumed that his mother must also have worn a dark Jewel. But he hardly remembered her at all. Just a halo of golden hair and a silver-coated laugh. His father was darker, stronger, a tall, lean man with black hair and golden eyes.  
  
To keep himself supported through the nights, and the days, Lorn had always fantasized that his father was Deamon Sadi, or, even better, Seatan SaDiablo, and that he wasn't just a bastard little boy, but the true heir to the SaDiablo name. But the fantasies didn't last very long, crumbling around him whenever he heard talk of the real heir. He was supposedly an Ebon-Gray Jeweled Eyrien, the son of Seatan's youngest boy Lucivar Yaslana. Not that there was anything boyish about Yaslana. Sometimes, the game had even earned him a beating from his owner, Hekatah. She was an old woman who always wore a black hood to hide her features, but she was still strong enough to give him bruises. So he had learned to keep his fantasies a secret. But she only rarely used the Ring of Obedience against him.  
  
He had often wondered why she had been so lenient in her punishment to him, though he had never been brave enough to ask. But, one day, she had let something slip, something Lorn knew was important…if he could just figure it out: "Because what your father did to me…if he knew about you…" She had shuddered, and then said no more.  
  
2/Tereille  
  
Arnar wandered aimlessly through the maze of trees and bushes that had overgrown the place in the thirty or so years since it had been in use. He walked through the carrot-patch, under the tree with the perfect branch, past the bush that bore only black roses, and through the secret entrance, into the room where it had all begun. There was still dried blood on the floor, both Jeanelle's and Greer's. The bed was still there, still narrow, still with the straps to tie down hands and feet, but now it was rotting, in complete disrepair. The young Eyrien boy had only come here once before, and the overwhelming history of the place had filled him a psychic energy he had not understood then.  
  
Now, however, he did.  
  
He spread his wings slowly, letting the images run through his mind, letting what had happened here all those years ago happen again in his mind. His mother had never talked about it, never told him anything, really. She had been a Gray-Jeweled Dea al Mon witch, though, unlike most Dea al Mon, she had been generally solitary. The only people she ever really talked to were Arnar's father and a Sapphire-Jeweled kindred wolf. He had inherited most of his looks from her, which made the large wings seem out of place on his slender frame. The other thing he had inherited from her was the SaDiablo name.  
  
After Deamonar Yaslana, the High Lord's grandson, Arnar was the heir. He never really believed anything would come of it, though. Seatan was still alive and kicking, with a wife and stepchildren, and Deamonar wasn't likely to die before Arnar. The older Eyrien was an Ebon-Gray Warlord Prince, while Arnar was only a Sapphire-Jeweled Warlord Prince. He might, after the Offering to the Darkness in two more years, descend to the Ebon-Gray, but he doubted it.  
  
The boy glanced around the room once more, his gold-green eyes looking for something. He found it under the decrepit bed, glinting slightly despite the tarnish that had settled on it.  
  
It was a golden-handled stiletto, its blade now dull, when it had once been sharp. And there was no mistaking the old blood that stained it. Adorning the crosspiece was a crest of two golden stags, their horns intertwining at base of the handle. A Dea al Mon knife. His grandmother's knife.  
  
3/Kealeer  
  
Seatan lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling. Sylvia was quiet beside him; he knew she was asleep. He was alone with his thoughts, something that he hated. His thoughts, these days, were troubled. His son and true heir, Deamon Sadi, had died shortly after the birth of his own son, and no one knew what, or who, had killed him. Jeanelle had gone into seclusion after the death of her husband, and the disappearance of her son Seatan III eleven years ago. And now he had to run the Court of Ebon Askavi, bad enough usually, but even more now that marauding bands of Hayllians and other races had emerged again. They served some evil purpose, though Seatan didn't know who commanded them. Most likely someone with a personal grudge against him, since his niece Surreal and her lover Falonar had been killed in one of the earlier skirmishes, and his daughter in-law, Marian, had also been killed in a later fight. Surreal's son and daughter as well as Marian's boy would have been killed had they not been visiting the Hall at Hallaway that year.  
  
The worst of it all had been Lucivar's death. Only a year ago, his youngest son had been, as usual, hunting for his wife's killers, and hadn't returned home. No news had been heard of him in the past year, except that he had been involved in a large-scale battle. And no news about Lucivar invariably meant bad news. Either the Eyrien had drastically changed, or was dead.  
  
Seatan considered the latter a much more likely answer.  
  
But he had been counting so much on Lucivar, since he had been Seatan's heir. The High Lord had been relying on him to help with Jeanelle, who would see no one but her adoptive brother, and to sift through the matters of Court and present the more important ones to him, while Lucivar would deal with the more trivial ones himself.  
  
Now Jeanelle would see no one, and Seatan was left by himself in the mire of running a Court he couldn't pretend to have enough power to rule. Sylvia helped as best she could, of course, but she had her own Court to run. Seatan sighed. It was just him; alone. 


	2. A Tangled Web

Chapter 2  
  
Three years later  
  
1/Kealeer  
  
Jeanelle sat in her room, eating only as much as necessary to stay alive, sleeping little. She practiced only basic Craft, and never used her Black Widow or Healer powers. She did nothing to remind her of her painful past.  
  
All her childhood friends were dead. Rose had returned to the Darkness, as well as Andulvar, Prothvar, Mephis, Titian, Marian and Andrew the stable lad. Surreal and Falonar were demon-dead, and rarely came to the Hall in Kealeer. Even when they did, she couldn't bear to see them. They reminded her too much of Deamon. Graysfang, the Sapphire-Jeweled demon-dead wolf, had come along once. She saw him for a few moments because he had had little connection to her husband, but after those few moments, she couldn't bear it any longer. Karla, the demon-dead Queen of Glacia, and her Master of the Guard had stopped by once. Jeanelle had said hello to them briefly, then retired upstairs again. Morghann, Khary and their daughter Carrie had come to the Hall, but her talk to them had been so abrupt that the hurt in Morghann and even Khary's eyes had been quite blatant. She regretted her behavior only now that Khary had been killed before she'd ever had a chance to explain to him.  
  
She never used anything more than basic Craft. But, tonight, a strange buzzing sound filled her head, reminding her constantly of what Graysfang had said in the few minutes she had spoken to him: Beware the golden spider that spins a tangled web. And it also made her hear over and over again what she had heard earlier, the call on the Black communication thread, the plea to the Darkness: Please! Let me serve a Queen I can respect, who respects me. Please.  
  
So now she spun a tangled web, as the golden Arachnian spiders had taught her, with the Twilight's Dawn Jewel in the center of it, pricked her finger, and slowly let the blood run down the strands…  
  
2/Hell  
  
Graysfang sat on the hard turf, his pink tongue lolling, the Sapphire Jewel nestled in his fur glowing softly. He was the strongest wolf, alive or demon-dead, and so the Hell Hounds didn't object to his leadership, even though he wasn't of their kind. The young wolf had picked up quite a few things about strategy from his years among experienced human warriors such as Lucivar, Deamon, Falonar, and especially Surreal. She had taught him practically everything he knew.  
  
Spread out, and don't let her see you. Kruger, you take fifteen Hounds and circle to the left, Barcase, you take fifteen and circle to the right. The rest of you, come with me. Graysfang padded forward on silent paws, stalking his prey. She wore a black cloak with the hood pulled up over her face to hide her decaying features.  
  
This was Hekatah, self-proclaimed High Priestess of Hell, ex-wife of Seatan Deamon SaDiablo and mother of Mephis and Peyton SaDiablo, both dead. She was one of the few tainted Blood who had been able to shield herself from Jeanelle's onslaught twenty-two years ago. She had nurtured the evilness in a small band of followers in Tereille, who had managed to revert the Realm of Light into the obscene cesspool it had been before Jeanelle.  
  
And Graysfang had no intention of allowing her influence to spread any further than it already had.  
  
3/Tereille  
  
Lady Roselia DiAngelo was a Green-Jeweled Queen, Hekatah's replacement for Dorothea, her previous pet ruler. But this time it would be easier to win the support of the masses, since it was a Queen instead of a Priestess who deigned to rule all of Tereille. But the only disadvantage was that Roselia only wore the Green.  
  
The young Queen knew that she was no match for Hekatah in a psychic battle, but she could easily outsmart the demon-dead High Priestess. For, even as Dorothea before her, Roselia had no loyalty to anything or anyone but her own ambitions. Except one person…a blond youth with sapphire eyes…  
  
4/Kealeer  
  
Surreal sat by her mother's grave, idly tracing the strange pattern engraved on the tombstone. Again, almost wonderingly, she ran a finger over the open wound across her throat. Being demon-dead was certainly an experience. She could distinctly remember the sword plunging into her back aided by a bolt of Opal power, the strength of her Jewels faltering, a hand grabbing her hair and pulling her head back, exposing her neck, a blade slicing across her throat so smoothly she didn't feel it, didn't know she was dying until she felt her own blood running over her collarbone, soaking the collar of her shirt in blood. Only vaguely she remembered the Ebony shield in Jeanelle's Ring of Honor she still wore on her left ring finger automatically activate, preventing them from finishing the kill.  
  
And yet here she was, sitting by somebody else's grave, tracing a strange pattern on the tombstone that sort of resembled…  
  
What did it resemble?  
  
She looked more closely at the engraving. She had seen Jeanelle's tangled webs, Karla and Gabrielle's tangled webs, but this somehow had a different feel to it. Every Black Widow who wove a tangled web left something of herself in it, a faint psychic presence that revealed to someone who knew what to look for the weaver of the tangled web. So Surreal sent out a gentle psychic probe, brushing the engraved tangled web with her mind.  
  
Titian.  
  
No, it couldn't be! Titian had been broken three hundred and eighty- four years ago when she had been raped by Kartane SaDiablo and Surreal had been born. The Dea al Mon Queen couldn't weave a tangled web after that. Unless…like Tersa. Tersa had been broken, and she had managed to weave one last tangled web to predict Jeanelle's coming. The coming of Witch. What if Titian had done the same thing…?  
  
Surreal sent out another tentative psychic thread, unsure how to read a tangled web and unsure of what to expect. She wasn't a Black Widow, but…  
  
5/The Twisted Kingdom  
  
A/The Past  
  
Shards of a crystal chalice…floating, falling through the abyss among the shards…blood…so much blood…falling, screaming…black candles…a child screaming…a golden mane…a narrow bed with silk sheets…a sumptuous bed with straps to tie down hands and feet…a cold stone altar…a child screaming…so much blood…  
  
You are my instrument. A thunderous voice.  
  
Butchering whore. An angry voice.  
  
Words lie, blood doesn't. An accusing voice.  
  
Forgive me, forgive me! A pleading voice. What had he done?  
  
Maybe he was wrong…maybe he was…maybe…  
  
Clinging to the desperate island of maybe…a sea of blood…the ground tumbling away…word sharks circling hungrily…so much blood…too much blood…a hand reaching out to help, pleading…you are my instrument…sticks floating, sinking…a gentle voice…Deamon…a sighing, lovely caress…climbing, always climbing…shards of a crystal chalice…blood…too much blood…the chalice breaking, shattering…  
  
B/The Present  
  
And the Blood shall sing to the Blood.  
  
Beware the golden spider that spins a tangled web…  
  
The words rang mockingly, repeatedly. Beware…beware…beware…a small gray wolf…a huge gray dog…Beware the golden spider that spins a tangled web…  
  
C/The Future  
  
Beware the golden spider that spins a tangled web.  
  
A Jewel…was it Gray? No, Green? No, it was definitely Red. Or was it Opal? Or could it be Summer-sky? White, Black, Tiger-eye, Rose. It was all the Jewels, and more.  
  
Please! Let me serve a Queen who I can respect, who will respect me. Please. Deamon's voice, but different.  
  
A golden-handled stiletto, its blade dull, when it had once been sharp…old blood…so much blood…blood staining the blade…adorning the crosspiece was a crest of two golden stags…horns intertwining at base of the handle…  
  
Blood…demon blood…demon Blood…and the Blood shall sing to the Blood…death…so much death…and blood…too much blood…another war is coming…beware the golden spider that spins a tangled web…  
  
For these two things a man may choose while the stars shine up above,  
  
For the Silver Ring is Honor, and the Ring of Gold is Love.  
  
Even the most beautiful Rose has thorns…  
  
If you sing to them correctly, they'll tell you the names of those that have gone…  
  
Beware the golden spider that spins a tangled web!  
  
6/Kealeer  
  
Surreal jerked back from the images that assaulted her so quickly. She remembered what Graysfang always said: Beware the golden spider that spins a tangled web.  
  
But it was so muddled, unclear. She tried to sort her way through the images, but found herself in a mental haze. Only Graysfang's warning remained sharp and clear in her memory. That and all the blood…too much blood and death. And too much Blood dead. Even demon Blood like herself. And kindred Blood. Another war was coming…  
  
7/Tereille  
  
He wore the Black. He was a natural Black Widow. Both these things he knew he had to keep secret, or Hekatah would punish him beyond his wild imaginings. Only Hekatah hadn't come back yet. Now Lady Roselia DiAngelo had the primary controlling ring linked to his Ring of Obedience. And she only wore the Green.  
  
Lorn Olbaidas sneered. Roselia was smart, and willing to inflict pain, and wasn't some minor bitch-Queen trying to show off by exerting dominance over a Black-Jeweled Warlord Prince. She knew what she was doing. But he could grind her between his teeth any day. Even though she hadn't made the Offering to the Darkness yet, she was strong, and had great potential, but she was no match for him, and never would be. She was even sweet and good-natured until she remembered that she had a reputation to keep up, and never made him do anything that he would hate her for. That was smart, granted, but it might have been out of fear rather than any kind of respect. One doesn't tread around dark-Jeweled Warlord Princes lightly.  
  
In the last three years, Lorn had developed a legendary temper. All the snide comments about him being a bastard half-breed didn't sit well with him, and the sneering at his childhood fantasy of being either Deamon Sadi's or Seatan SaDiablo's son was even worse. He knew his fantasy hadn't been true, but it had been a way to deal with life, and none of those who sneered had ever experienced life as a pleasure slave.  
  
That was the singular reason he didn't crush Roselia to a pulp, break the Ring and flee to Kealeer: she never engaged in the sneering. She sat up late with him playing cards, chatting idly about inconsequential things, but never gloating. Unless someone else was there. Then she was the arrogant, conniving, ambitious young woman he had grown to know and loathe. But he never forgot those few solitary moments alone with her, playing cards late at night.  
  
8/ Kealeer  
  
Lady Kitarian SaDiablo sat in the chair facing her brother across the small table. Their parents had been killed some eight years ago, leaving them alone with each other. Arnar was a slender youth of nineteen who had just made his Offering to the Darkness. Kitarian was a lithe girl resembling the Dea al Mon more than the Eyrien side of the family. The only racial characteristics bestowed on her by their father were her wings and her tanned skin.  
  
"Ary," she said, calling him by his childhood nickname.  
  
"Yes, Kit?"  
  
"I've got something to tell you."  
  
He regarded her closely. Did she know about the knife he had? His grandmother's knife? She looked nervous. He smiled at her reassuringly. She was only seventeen, and at that age, she didn't deserve to be nervous around her older brother. "What is it?" She didn't perk up. "You're a Queen, Kit, don't be nervous."  
  
"I…it has to do with my Jewels. Not even mum and father knew."  
  
She only wore her Birthright Jewels. At least they had to be lighter than his Gray, probably lighter even than his Birthright Sapphire. Nothing to worry about. Unless they were among the Jewels so light that she would never descend to the darker Jewels.  
  
"I wear the Black."  
  
9/Tereille  
  
Lorn carefully brushed his dark blond hair out of his sapphire eyes, studying Lady Roselia, the usually very adept cradle player who now seemed nervous for some reason. He regarded her coolly. She blushed.  
  
"Lorn." Her voice was light, even musical. She had long auburn hair and deep blue, almost violet eyes. Not Hayllian. Possibly a Dhelman- Chaillot half-breed. She was, he thought, rather astounded with himself, beautiful.  
  
"Yes?" he asked, a bit warily.  
  
"Do you think…I mean…" Where was this going? He heard Roselia mutter to herself, "Hekatah will be furious with me…" Out loud she said, "You don't know who your parents are, do you?"  
  
"No," he replied carefully.  
  
"Hekatah's been trying to keep it a secret from you, but I pried it out of her, promising I wouldn't tell anyone." Her tan face paled, her violet eyes shifted nervously. "But you should know," she whispered.  
  
"Who?" he asked breathlessly; this was what he had wanted to know all his life.  
  
"Your last name, Olbaidas, spelled backwards is…" she hesitated. He figured it out for himself.  
  
"You're saying my father is Seatan!?" He could have leaped for joy for the first time in his life.  
  
"No." He sank back, deflated. His cold mask replaced itself over his handsome features. "He's your grandfather. Deamon Sadi is your father." He could have kissed her. In fact, he did kiss her, jumping up from his chair and mixing the cards terribly. "Wait!" she cried breathlessly, pulling away. "It gets better!"  
  
"How could it?" he cried exuberantly. He felt, for the first time in his life, the sensation that normal people call "happy."  
  
"Have you ever heard of Jeanelle Angelline? Witch? She's your mother." He leaped again, hugged her, kissed her, thanked her profusely. She smiled slightly, but the smile faded when there was a knock on the door. "Who is it?" she called.  
  
"It's me, you idiot, open the door!"  
  
"Hekatah!" the girl hissed, springing to her feet. Lorn fumbled with the capsized chairs and table for a split second before abandoning that project.  
  
Roselia rushed to the door, unbolted the physical lock, and opened the Green psychic lock. The demon-dead, Red-Jeweled High Priestess of Hell stumbled into the room, fresh blood running from dozens of cuts on her body. Lorn, sending out a quick mental probe, sensed that her Jewels were completely drained. He could easily deal with her.  
  
Hekatah glanced around the disorderly room. "Have you been playing with my little toy, Roselia? I thought you were a virgin." She said it with sweet venom, knowing Lorn would spring to a chance to destroy his captor. But rape was the last thing he had on his mind concerning Roselia.  
  
But that didn't stop him from being stunned. "A virgin?" he repeated.  
  
"That's right," Hekatah replied sweetly, thinking the shock would wear off and she'd have a reason to have Lorn restrained further. And Lorn didn't like that idea. Roselia looked around, then blushed. "Then what was going on in here?" the Priestess asked.  
  
"Spring cleaning," Lorn replied laconically, all his masks back in place, his psychic sent radiating coolness and suppressed hatred. He walked out of the room with a grace that would have made an Arcerian cat jealous.  
  
The next night, playing cradle with Roselia, Lorn tried to ignore the stiffness in her muscles, the weakness in her psychic sent.  
  
"What happened to Hekatah last night, Rose?" he asked, calling her by the name her friends, Stewart, and Master of the Guard always called her, trying to start a conversation.  
  
"I…I can't tell you," she whispered. He tried to disregard the bruise on her cheek and the bandage on her arm, tried desperately to ignore the fact that her game was terribly off. They had been playing cradle every night for two years now, and she had never played this badly.  
  
He became more insistent. "What happened?" he asked again; this time he wasn't cool, wasn't laconic, but spoke through gritted teeth. He leaned over the table, closer to her. The bruise looked darker, and there was a nick on her throat as if someone had drawn blood and not healed the cut.  
  
"Nothing." Again, she whispered.  
  
"Please?" he asked softly. She met his eyes for a second. In her glance was a pain and fear he wanted to banish, wanted to kiss and cuddle away. And that, more than anything else, frightened him.  
  
10/Kealeer  
  
If Jeanelle had worn the Black, her Jewels would be drained. But less than half her Ebony power was used up. Her son had sent a plea on a Black communication thread into the Darkness, and she had heard it. And so she had woven a tangled web that drew a true Queen to him, and him to a true Queen. She hoped that would be enough to prevent the war, but she knew it probably wasn't.  
  
  
  
11/Tereille  
  
"Last night," Rose began in a choked whisper. "Last night…Hekatah…" the girl gulped. "She…I…I can't tell you!" she said again fiercely.  
  
"Why?" he asked, cajoling. "What did she do to you?"  
  
"She…it was…" she shuddered, clenching her teeth. Why did she trust him more than anyone else in her Court? He was just a pleasure slave, not even a real man…but something in the way his eyes changed subtly from summer-sky blue to sapphire drew her too him, something in the way he spoke and held his head; in the way he was the only one who wouldn't be angry with her if she screwed up.  
  
"What?" he asked again gently.  
  
She hung her head, tried to stop herself from telling him everything, but to no avail. Some kind of compulsion spell? she thought. She was a bit surprised when he answered on a Green communication thread, No, no compulsion spell, I just want to know what the bitch did to you. "At first, she just beat me physically," Roselia whimpered. "But then, she…she forced my inner barriers open and…and…"  
  
"Shh," he whispered, stroking her hair gently as she bit back a sob. "Shh, I know." Actually, he didn't know at all, but could imagine what it must have been like. At least she wasn't broken.  
  
Rose snuggled against his shoulder, still trying not to cry at the pain that still lingered inside her mind. "I don't know what happened to her, she just said something about Hell Hounds…and a Sapphire-Jeweled demon wolf, kindred, who had a golden spider riding on his back." 


	3. Offering to the Darkness

Chapter 3  
  
One year later  
  
1/Kealeer  
  
Offering to the Darkness. The phrase made Arnar sick to his stomach, caused blood to rush to his head and pound through his temples, made him want to howl with joy and pain, rage and celebration. He tried not to think of what his darling little Kit had told him last year, before she had made the Offering: "I wear the Black." The Black was not a Birthright Jewel. No one wore the Black, Ebon-Gray or Gray as his or her Birthright.  
  
Except mum had always told him that Lady Jeanelle, Witch, had been gifted with thirteen uncut Black Jewels at her Birthright ceremony.  
  
Was his sister…his lovely little Kit…Witch? Dreams made flesh; the living myth? It couldn't be. It was simply impossible. But she wore the Black…  
  
2/Terreille  
  
Offering to the Darkness. Finally there might be a Queen who could stand up to Hekatah, who had more power than the evil Priestess. But she was still Hekatah's tool, no matter how true to the old ways she was. Lady Rose wore the Gray. She was strong, stronger than Hekatah, stronger than everyone in the Realm of Terreille except himself.  
  
But she was still the arrogant, ambitious girl she had been when Hekatah had ripped into her inner barriers and left her shaking for months.  
  
Now Hekatah could never do that again. Now Hekatah wasn't as strong as her little pet Queen. Even the sweetest pets have fangs. Even the most beautiful Rose has a thorn. But she served Hekatah…  
  
3/Terreille  
  
Roselia and Hekatah coolly regarded each other across the short coffee table. After Roselia had made her Offering to the Darkness, meetings like this were always strained. Hekatah knew that this Queen was stronger than she was; if her control over the girl slipped…  
  
"About Lorn…"  
  
Yes, it was usually about Lorn. Hekatah had to do something about him very soon. He was a bad influence on Roselia, something that undermined Hekatah's power. He had to be dealt with, but very subtly. If Roselia suspected Hekatah's involvement in Lorn's demise…  
  
"What about Lorn?" the Priestess sneered.  
  
"I was thinking…maybe you could…"  
  
"Release him?" Hekatah finished her sentence. "Let him return home to…" She paused, closely regarding the blushing girl. "Is that was this is about? Do you think if you get me to release him, that will make up for what you did to him?" She snorted. "Nothing will ever be able to repay him, except perhaps your death. Do you really think, once he learns what you did, that he'll waste any time trying to destroy you?"  
  
Rose just stared at her, a faint blush coloring her cheeks. Did Hekatah want her dead for some reason?  
  
4/Tereille  
  
No wonder Hekatah had always beaten him for pretending to be Deamon's son. It had been true. And now he knew, thanks to Rose. He walked next to her Master of the Guard, only half listening to the young man's idle chatter.  
  
By the end of that talk, Lorn knew more than he'd ever wanted to about Court-issued troop uniforms and weapons maintenance.  
  
Hekatah came around the corner, her face over-shadowed by the black hood she wore. The Master bowed to her, but didn't pay much attention. But she was a Red-Jeweled Priestess, and he was only an Opal-Jeweled Prince. She didn't like the lack of respect he showed to her.  
  
Three minutes later, he was scurrying off to find a bathroom to puke in.  
  
"Hello, boy," Hekatah said coolly to him. She had, from day one, always called him "boy."  
  
"Hello, Hekatah," he replied with equal coolness. He nodded his head, and continued to walk. But she kept looking at him, her demon eyes boring into his back. He turned around. "What?" he asked in a too-soft voice laced with venom.  
  
"Nothing," she replied. "It's just that you look an awful lot like your father."  
  
"Father…" he repeated the word, savored it, let it caress his tongue like a foreign taste. "Father."  
  
Hekatah smiled at him sweetly, continued to smile at him all the time she whispered poison-coated half-truths into his eager, believing ears.  
  
The door didn't precisely open. It shattered, millions of tiny splinters raining down on the auburn-haired girl cowering in the chair. Perfect. He advanced on her with calm, predatory grace, smiling lazily. She shrunk back, avoiding his cool gaze.  
  
"Why?" he cooed. "Why did you do that?"  
  
"I…" He held up a hand, cutting her off.  
  
"Never mind, I don't need to know why. All I need to know is that you did it." His smile widened.  
  
With calm satisfaction, Hekatah listened at the door all the while that Rose screamed. Even after the screaming stopped, she continued to listen, sated. 


	4. Even the most beautiful Rose has thorns....

Chapter 4  
  
Three months later  
  
1/Terreille  
  
Arnar strode through the park in Draega, the capital of Hayll. He was still puzzling over the fact that his darling little Kit was Witch. It nagged at his mind, common sense telling him that it couldn't be true. But some deeper, more instinctive part of him knew that it was.  
  
He was lost so deep in his own thoughts that he didn't notice the pass through the solid metal of the fence, didn't notice that he was now in the private royal gardens instead of in the public gardens.  
  
Until he looked down at his feet and consciously registered his surroundings, he didn't notice the patch of new witchblood next to his right foot.  
  
If you sing to them correctly, they'll tell you the names of those that have gone…  
  
Arnar bent down by the witchblood, humming an old tune his father had taught him. Falonar had always told him not to forget the tune; it was a true witchsong. He sent out a gentle psychic probe, brushing the flowers with his mind. A breeze stirred the air. With it came a voice, a deep, gentle voice, like that of his uncle Deamon, who he had barely known. Its words were a gentle sigh: even the most beautiful Rose has thorns.  
  
The words held no meaning for him, he had never heard of anyone named Rose, but he knew that it was this Rose who was buried here.  
  
2/Terreille  
  
Jordan, the Master of the Guard looked oddly at the young Eyrien. He looked somehow familiar. Perhaps in that raid he had directed about twelve years ago, when he had been instructed to kill the Eyrien Warlord Prince, that Dea al Mon witch, and that Sapphire-Jeweled wolf. It had been a shame, really. All three had been extremely good fighters, and judging by the way they had fought together, good people. He had personally driven his sword through the witch, and had delivered the killing blow to the wolf, but all three had become demon-dead. They had had some sort of shield darker than even his Green-Jeweled underling had been able to sense. Of course, all three of them had worn the Sapphire or darker, but, still, the Green should be able to at least sense a shield made by a Sapphire, though not break it.  
  
This Eyrien he was faced with now looked very much like the witch he had killed. The same short, slender frame, gold-green eyes and delicately pointed ears. Someone came up behind Jordan, patting him on the back, offering him condolences about Rose. Poor girl, she had never deserved to die like that. The someone shook her head sadly. Jordan nodded; distracted. She walked away, and he vaguely noticed that she dropped the façade of sorrow as soon as she thought he wasn't looking any more.  
  
The Eyrien's head had snapped up at the mention of Rose. He approached slowly, giving Jordan a chance to assess his strengths and weaknesses. He was a Gray-Jeweled Warlord Prince, and he openly carried a blade through the private gardens. It was a strange knife, with a crosspiece surmounted by two golden stags, their horns entwining to form the base of the hilt. A Dea al Mon knife.  
  
"Hello," the Eyrien whispered in a soft tenor voice. Jordan immediately knew that the softness in his voice was pure deception; this man was dangerous, in both a physical and a psychic sense.  
  
"What do you want?" Jordan asked with his customary abruptness.  
  
"Who's Rose?" The Eyrien whispered.  
  
"What's it to you?" Jordan asked, crossing his arms over his chest. All it took was the Eyrien's gaze to make Jordan back down. The Master of the Guard was by no means a small man. He was tall and lean, with plenty of muscle. But the Eyrien was stronger. So much stronger. "The Queen who used to rule Hayll. She was killed by one of her slaves."  
  
"How strong was she?"  
  
"She wore the Gray," Jordan hissed, offended by the seeming slight to his Queen's strength. Even though she was dead, Jordan still served Rose and only Rose.  
  
"Then how could a slave have killed her? I doubt there are any that strong."  
  
"He wears the Black."  
  
I wear the Black. The phrase ran through Arnar's head like a stampede of horses, once again causing the blood to rush to his head. He wears the Black. No one in Terreille wore the Black. In all three Realms, only Seatan and Kit wore the Black. Except…but he wasn't alive.  
  
Jordan watched the Eyrien curiously, puzzled by his expression. "Did she serve Hekatah?" Jordan looked sharply at the Eyrien. How did he know about Hekatah? "Did she?" he asked again.  
  
"Only when it didn't interfere with the well-being of Hayll," Jordan hissed through grated teeth, once again offended by the lack of respect shown to his dead Queen.  
  
Arnar scowled darkly to himself. That son of a…if he was still alive, Arnar would track him down until the day he died, and if only to perish in battle so be it. But he would not let the death of a strong young Queen who could have stood up to Hekatah go unpunished. He turned abruptly.  
  
Jordan looked after the Eyrien's retreating back. "Wait!" he called. "Who are you?"  
  
The Eyrien turned back to him, his lips curving in a slow, cruel smile. Jordan shivered at that smile. Three words whispered on the breeze, carrying over to the Master of the Guard, said with such sweet venom that it made him shiver even in the heat of the afternoon. "I am vengeance."  
  
3/Kealeer  
  
Jeanelle sat with her head in her hands, trying to choke back the frustration and anger. If only she could rip apart the tangled web she had woven, and in so doing, destroy the events it told of. The Queen she had spent so much energy sending to her son was dead, and he had killed her.  
  
She looked again at the tangled web, hoping, praying to see something that would tell her that she was wrong, that the Queen lived on.  
  
In the distance, she heard someone calling her name loudly, something that no one had dared to do since Lucivar's death. But the sound was vague, distant, background music for the scene playing in her room. She gazed hard and deep into the tangled web, the web with an Ebony Jewel chip woven into the center, and as she gazed deeper and harder she saw…  
  
"Jeanelle! Jeanelle! Come downstairs now! I don't give a…" The ensuing string of profanities went on and on in a light, almost musical voice that was an ironic counterpoint to the harshness of the threats. Surreal.  
  
Jeanelle wearily brushed the tangled web into nothingness, watching sadly as the Ebony Jewel chip fell through the frame to the table below. Her name rang again. She had Ebon-locked her door, so no one could enter. She could sit here, engrossed in her melancholy thoughts forever, and no one would be able to disturb her.  
  
So it was with great surprise that she heard the handle turn, the door swing open, and a hesitant tread on the carpeted floor. She whirled around to see KeaAskavi, the Arcerian cat who, like his father Kealas, was able to open any shield or lock; even Ebony. He was eight hundred pounds of feline muscle and bone, wearing a Red Jewel, looking in every way like his father had. Her heart skipped a beat. Just looking at him made her want to cry. To talk to him…  
  
That would be too much.  
  
The half-blood demon witch wants to speak with you. She says it's very urgent.  
  
Tell her no, Jeanelle replied firmly.  
  
She says that the world will come crashing down around your stupid head if you don't get your ass down into real life soon. And what she's got to say might very well be the catalyst that causes the veritable end of the world.  
  
Inform her otherwise, Witch whispered with dreadful finality. KeaAskavi should have bowed, should have left, should have submitted to his Queen's authority. But instead he bared his teeth, growling low. Witch just stared at him calmly, dangerously.  
  
The Arcerian crouched, his chorded muscles rippling beneath the soft white fur. I know you are sad; you have a right to be sad. But you have no right to be this sad for fourteen years. Let it go. Ebon Askavi needs you. Kealeer needs you.  
  
The Queen of Ebon Askavi is dead.  
  
But she who is Kealeer's Heart, she who is Witch, still lives.  
  
Do not throw Draca's words back at me like that! Jeanelle cried angrily.  
  
Very well, KeaAskavi replied. But do not ever forget; the kindred never doubted. Kindred don't doubt. And the half-blood demon witch never doubted either.  
  
It was hard to look at Surreal; hard not to. She looked the same as Jeanelle had always remember: strong, caring, stubborn, trusting and trustworthy, though short, slender, and with an extremely volatile temper. Except for the gaping wound across her throat. Other than that, she looked the same. Jeanelle's sensitive mind shied away from the sameness between mother and daughter. She had known Titian before she had known Surreal, and after Surreal's death, it had always struck her as ironic that the witch had spent most of her life trying to avenge her mother's death, only to die the same way. Only to have her throat slit and end up a demon Harpy, just like her mother.  
  
But Titain's anger hadn't been as direct as Surreal's, or quite as explosive. Jeanelle had always remembered her as serene. Surreal was anything but serene. She sat with her elbows resting on her knees, her chin resting on her hands, a scowl darkening her face.  
  
"Titian left a tangled web, it was engraved on her tombstone. I read it." At first Jeanelle thought she had misheard; Titian had been broken, and Surreal wasn't a Black Widow. There was no way Surreal could have read the tangled web…unless…  
  
"Let me see your hand." It wasn't a question, and it wasn't Jeanelle's idle curiosity. It was Witch's terrible certainty. The demon extended her right hand, and was surprised to see Jeanelle's snake tooth slide out of its sheath. She winced when she felt the prick of the snake tooth, the venom pumping eagerly into her vein, the sudden cold spreading through her hand, her arm, and then the rush of warmth followed by…nothing.  
  
4/Terreille  
  
Lorn sat with his arm looped up over the back of the chair, his legs crossed ankle over knee, staring calmly at Hekatah and Lord Friall. He wasn't worried; there was no law against murder. On the other hand, rape was punishable by execution. But no one had any proof. The charge would never stand on its feet in a court of law.  
  
The young man was blithely unaware that Friall was the court of law.  
  
Hekatah leaned across the table, her dead eyes boring into his skull. "Did you, in fact, rape, and in so doing, kill Queen Roselia DiAngelo?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Did you kill her?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
She turned to Friall. "He's lying. I listened at the door." She smiled smugly at Lorn. He smiled back.  
  
Friall puffed himself up, looked around the small room self- importantly, shuffled some non-consequential papers, and sniffed. Just sniffed. As if that decided the matter. "You will be executed at dawn tomorrow." He stood up, turning his back on the condemned: Seatan Deamon SaDiablo III. Bad move.  
  
Lorn's back ached from the whipping he'd received for killing Lord Friall, but he didn't care. He'd never liked the man anyway. Hekatah had been furious with him, and she'd had a right. She had been forced to watch while her trusted underling had had the life slowly sucked out from him. It would take years for even the best cleaners to wash all the blood off the walls.  
  
But it didn't matter. Tomorrow he would die anyway. But he swore to himself that he wouldn't go down without a fight.  
  
5/Kealeer  
  
Surreal stared at Jeanelle, then at the cut the snake tooth had made on the tip of her right ring finger. Then, lastly, she stared at the venomous nail that had slid out from underneath her own natural nail.  
  
"Your mother's last gift to you: to hide from everyone, even yourself, what you really are," Witch said.  
  
"But…why?" Surreal had heard stories about how Black Widows had to milk their snake tooth every once and a while, or the venom would become crystallized, eventually killing the Black Widow herself. "And how?"  
  
"She knew what you were, from the very first moment she saw you, she knew you'd be a Black Widow, that you'd never really be able to keep it a secret, that you'd be broken by one of Dorothea's stooges because you were strong and could weave tangled webs. So she hid it from everyone including you. She sucked all the venom out, knowing that with all of it gone, the snake tooth couldn't produce more," Jeanelle explained.  
  
"But wouldn't I still be a Black Widow?"  
  
"You are a Black Widow. You just never tried to be one before you read your mother's tangled web."  
  
Surreal sat back, the anger completely gone, replaced by astonishment. A Black Widow…and of course it was just her luck to find out after she was dead…  
  
"What did you see?" Witch asked. It always amazed Surreal how the woman could switch from one personality to the other in less than a sentence. Then she swore that after today, nothing would ever surprise her again. But she shoved aside her wonderment and told Jeanelle all she had been able to piece together from the disconnected bits of information she had seen.  
  
6/Terreille  
  
The ropes that bound him to the post chafed at his wrists, biting the skin. He wished they would go away, wished it would all disappear and that he'd be sitting in his mother's arms once more, or on his father's lap. He wished the damn ropes would quit cutting into him.  
  
And surprisingly, they did.  
  
"Rose?" he whispered quickly. "Is that you?" She hushed him with a wave her hand, concentrating on the complicated knots Jordan had tied. The Master of the Guard had insisted on tying the ropes himself, and had made them extra tight. Lorn sighed when they finally fell away, relieved from the tension on his wrists. Rose watched him scramble down from the funeral pyre he had been standing on, no longer the cold, cruel man who had barged into her room three months earlier, but the handsome, slightly awkward youth she had played cradle with at night.  
  
"Come on," he whispered, putting a protective arm around her lithe shoulders and throwing a Black sight shield around them both as they moved quickly to Jordan's rooms.  
  
He sat with his back to the door, his black hair tousled, his desk awash with papers. His Opal Jewel hung on its Silver chain around his neck, not registering the two who entered his room by passing through the solid door.  
  
He whirled around when Lorn dropped the sight shield, going instinctively for his sword. He paused, growled, when he saw Lorn. He paused again when he saw Rose, and dropped his sword with a sharp clatter.  
  
"How…" he whispered disbelievingly. "I thought…"  
  
"What you thought was a misconception, and it was exactly what we wanted you to think," Rose said.  
  
"You're…alive!" he cried, falling to his knees in front of her.  
  
Lorn shrugged. "Sometimes the best way to fool an enemy is to convince a friend." He had heard that somewhere before, but this wasn't the time to try and remember phrases said by past acquaintances.  
  
Jordan suddenly seemed to snap out of the reverie he'd been in, jumping to his feet and thrusting the full weight of his muscles in Lorn's face, making sure that the other man was aware that Jordan would take some killing. "Friend? I'm no friend of yours! After what you did to R—"  
  
Lorn held up his hand. A simple gesture, but it was enough. "I did nothing to her that you wouldn't have done yourself."  
  
Rose blushed. "All he did was see me through my Virgin Night." She hurried on quickly when she saw Jordan's worried expression. "And I'm not broken, mad or dead." The last one was obvious, but with Jordan, obvious was the best route to take. Rose had noted that most warriors weren't prized for their intelligence when it came to non-military matters.  
  
Lorn winked at the other man, disappeared into a side-chamber for a moment, and reemerged a completely different person.  
  
He still wore his black trousers, white shirt, and black jacket. But they seemed somehow straighter, more polished. He had changed out of the bloodstained, ragged set and into a new suit that was exactly the same as the old one, Jordan realized. Around his neck was a glittering Black Jewel set in a gold emblem that Jordan didn't recognize. Around his right ring finger was his Black ring, with the same setting. His hair was combed, his face washed. He seemed taller, prouder, like he might have been before he was trained as a pleasure slave.  
  
He approached Rose, his hand held out before him in a loose fist. He opened his fist slowly, to reveal the two pieces of the Ring of Obedience. Jordan hadn't felt a surge of power or anything that might indicate Lorn had broken the Ring, and it was a powerful man indeed who could break Hekatah's Ring without so much as a whisper. Lorn upended his hand, and the two pieces of the Ring fell to the ground, making a dull thunk noise as they hit the carpet.  
  
He smiled at Rose. "I serve you, Lady. I won't wear her Ring any longer. I'll wear yours."  
  
"Yes, Prince," she replied. "You wear the Invisible Ring." She paused, assessing something about him. Then she smiled. "The Silver."  
  
It was then that Hekatah broke into the room, ripping Jordan's Opal lock apart and splitting the door in half with a bolt of Red power. "An interesting conversation indeed, and one that the Dark Council will love to hear."  
  
Lorn knew why she wasn't having one single one of her little stooges lay sentence on them, instead of the whole Dark Council.  
  
He didn't have to remind her of what he'd done to Friall.  
  
7/Kealeer  
  
"What does it mean?" Surreal asked, stirring her coffee again. She didn't really need coffee now that she was dead, but she liked it, so she drank it anyway. It was a stubborn, pointless thing to do, but Surreal was like that sometimes.  
  
"You mean you're a natural Black Widow and you…" Jeanelle paused. "Then again, you were never trained, and were never allowed to let your instincts come out. That's why you don't understand." She paused. "My son created a very clever illusion that he had raped and butchered the Queen he served because of what she had done to him." And to me, she thought, but didn't say. "But he hadn't. He knew she was a good Queen, probably the last left in Terreille, so he didn't kill her. But he made Hekatah think that he had, made her Master of the Guard and Stewart think he had. He even created a phony patch of witchblood that said her name if you sang to it correctly." Your son told me that; he's a very bright boy. But she didn't say that out loud. "Now he serves her, and he wears the Silver Ring, the Ring of Honor."  
  
These two choices a man may make while the stars shine up above,  
  
For the Silver Ring is Honor, and the Ring of Gold is Love.  
  
8/Terreille  
  
Rose had been a very convincing actress, though he wasn't sure whether she had been acting to him or to Hekatah. She had broken down in tears, telling Hekatah everything, saying she had planned it all so that he would be condemned. Hekatah had believed her. Even Lorn and Jordan had half- believed her.  
  
Now he was tied again on that same funeral pyre, again waiting dawn, and with dawn, death.  
  
Rose had hurt him that she had betrayed his trust so much, so easily. Mother Night, he hated her for that. Hated her with every fiber of his being. He had trusted her, and she had repaid that trust with a stab right in his heart. Right where it hurt most.  
  
Even the most beautiful Rose has thorns.  
  
9/Hell  
  
Hekatah wandered through Hell; not a smart thing to do, but there wasn't much anyone could do to her. She was a Red-Jeweled Priestess, and there was only one demon in all of Hell that wore a darker Jewel than her. And she wasn't likely to run into Dorothea's granddaughter here.  
  
But there was one Ebon-Gray Jewel that she didn't know about.  
  
The Arachnian Queen sat quite comfortably on Graysfang's head, trying not to scold the wolf for taking so long. But really, there wasn't much the Warlord could do to go faster.  
  
It took them so long to catch up with Hekatah, but when they did, the Arachnian Queen comfortably nestled herself in Hekatah's hair, and began to weave her tangled web.  
  
Hekatah glanced over her shoulder, thinking it was nothing, but wanting to make sure. It basically was nothing. A gray wolf padding along behind her. True, this was the leader of the Hell Hounds, and a Sapphire-Jeweled Warlord, but he couldn't do much to her. It was when she tried to turn her head back to the front that she ran into problems.  
  
The Arachnian Queen looped the last strand of the tangled web around Hekatah's ear, locking her head in place. The Priestess watched in trepidation as the golden spider scuttled around so she could see it. And as the Queen's legs left the web, it began to dissipate, vanishing into thin air.  
  
No…not quite thin air. Hekatah could still feel it weighing down on her, though now mentally just as much as physically. But she could mover her head again.  
  
The Arachnian Queen used a Sapphire communication thread, so the wolf could hear too, and Hekatah heard it in the vaults of her mind, like some dread prophet spelling out her doom. The web will continue to close until it shuts your inner barriers completely, with no way for you to open them. And it will continue to close even after that, until your inner barriers are smashed, and you are left a broken, insane heap of carrion, or worse…  
  
The Arachnian Queen jumped lightly from Hekatah to Graysfang, and the wolf trotted away, not fearing the Priestess in the least. And she knew she wasn't much to fear any more, with that web slowly closing all the time. She didn't have much time left, so she rushed back to Terreille, back to unfinished business that had to be wrapped up.  
  
Beware the golden spider that spins a tangled web.  
  
10/Terreille  
  
Lorn growled when he felt the ropes loosen, then fall away completely. He whirled to face her, his snarl shouting louder than words the hatred he felt for her. She took a step back as he leaped from the pyre to land directly in front of her.  
  
"Why?" he growled.  
  
"To save your life," Rose replied in a faint hiss. She turned her back to him, beginning to walk away. "To give me a chance to save your life."  
  
"Why?" he asked again, his arms folded across his lean chest. "Why does my life matter so much to you that you would go out of your way to save me? Why would you lie like that to Hekatah if it wasn't the truth, if you weren't planning to turn me over to her again?" She slowly turned around, her lip caught between her teeth.  
  
He took a step toward her, his hands clenched in fists. But she lifted her head up and leaned forward. Her lips brushed his. He caught his hand straying upward to stroke her long auburn hair, but checked the hand just before he touched her. He forced himself to remember that he was supposed to be angry; that she had betrayed him.  
  
He pulled away from the kiss, away from her. "And why…"  
  
"Why did I have your father killed?" she asked with sweet venom. He nodded, his anger returning. He felt a strange sensation stutter deep within him. Ice whispered through his veins. If her explanation didn't satisfy him, she would die a more horrible death than they had staged three months earlier. "Your father died eight years ago. At the time, I was only ten. Do you think I would go around ordering people's executions when I was only ten?"  
  
He nodded. The ice rushed. She drew a deep breath, then let it out slowly. "I swear to by the Darkness that I didn't. I had nothing to do with your father's death."  
  
The ice melted a little. "Why should I believe anything you tell me?" She kissed him again. But this kiss was longer, deeper, and not at all chaste. The ice trickling through him melted completely, returning from whatever dark place it had come from. His anger faded, leaving him with the certain knowledge that even as he served her, she served him.  
  
He pulled away only long enough to murmur happily to himself what he suddenly knew without question, though he had no idea how he knew it. The Invisible Ring. The Silver and Gold.  
  
"I wear the Gold."  
  
11/Terreille  
  
Palas, the Opal-Jeweled Stewart of Rose's Court, sat in a bit of a daze. He was Jordan's twin brother, in every way the Master's equal, but the driving force behind every one of his actions were his own personal interests. The only reason he had bowed to Rose was because in serving her, he in turn served Hekatah. When Rose had died, he had placed himself in service to her, and only to her, hoping that he might rise in her favor, and gain greater power. Now Rose was alive. Rose had staged the whole thing so that Lorn Olbaidas the pleasure slave would die.  
  
He didn't believe a word of it.  
  
12/Terreille  
  
The Gleeash brothers. The words sent shivers of fear through everyone who heard them. No one knew what Jewels they wore; no one knew where they had come from. All that was known about them was that they were totally ruthless, and would stop at nothing to reward whoever had crossed them with a slow and painful death.  
  
The older was Percival Gleeash. He seemed the more dominant, at least physically. He was a tall Hayllian man with muscles on top of his muscles. His golden eyes held the look of one who had worn the dark Jewels from a very early age.  
  
The younger was Tevrin Gleeash. He was a lean, wiry man with the same haunted look in his golden eyes that his brother had. His black hair was long and lank, his eyes quick and furtive.  
  
Together the two opposites were an amazing, and deadly, team.  
  
The taproom was smoky and smelled strongly of stale beer and unwashed bodies. They sat at a small table for two in a dark corner, discussing everything with each other, and nothing.  
  
"I think Hekatah's done for," said Percival.  
  
"Yes, I agree," said Tevrin in his greasy, nerve-wracking voice.  
  
"She was nearly killed by Seatan and his son Deamon in that near-war nineteen years ago. She was extremely useful to us, and has been useful in getting another Court set up that can appose the Dark Court of Ebon Askavi. But now she's not much use. Not after what the Arachnian did to her."  
  
"Yes, yes, that is very true. I think it is time to dispose of her." He pulled a long, thin knife out from under his tunic. Percival put a cautionary hand over his.  
  
"You think too quickly sometimes, brother. No one knows about us. They think it was Hekatah all along. No one knows it was always us behind the scenes, pulling the threads. If we kill her instead of letting the tangled web do the job, they'll know that someone else was involved. We don't want that just yet."  
  
"Yes, yes of course you are right, brother," the greasy little man said, sliding the knife back under his clothes. "We must let the tangled web kill her."  
  
Mikal DeLànge was a short boy, always had been short. His name, by rights, should have been SaDiablo, ever since his mother had married Seatan, but he chose instead to follow the matriarchal bloodline, like Jeanelle had always told him to.  
  
Now he sat in the smoky taproom trying not to breathe too deeply, listening intently to the two men in the dark corner talk about his stepfather and stepbrother and someone else he'd never heard about.  
  
He was twenty-seven, and still hadn't made the Offering to the Darkness, so he still wore his Birthright Summer-sky. With luck, he might descend to the Green, though he doubted it. Psychic strength didn't run very much in his family. His mother was a Sapphire-Jeweled Queen, the only exception in eighty-three generations. His father had been a Tiger-eye- Jeweled Warlord. Never mind that his stepfather was the Prince of Darkness, the High Lord of Hell.  
  
The two men's conversation had been very interesting, though he didn't understand some of it. His mother probably wouldn't care; she had enough problems running Dhelman. But father…yes, Seatan would probably care a great deal.  
  
13/Kealeer  
  
Seatan stood, staring wistfully at the Hall in Kealeer. He was going to have to leave it, going to have to give it all up. His heir, Deamonar was strong, though he would have wished Deamon or his son could have been the heir, but Deamonar would do fine. He was of Andulvar's line, and Andulvar had always been very strong.  
  
The High Lord shook his head sadly, and began the journey up the stone steps, through the great hall, and into his public study, where his grandson Deamonar at waiting for him with a sheaf of papers lying on the desk.  
  
Seatan sighed, walked forward, picked up the pen, set the tip against the paper, preparing to sign his name and give full ownership of his lands and titles to Deamonar. He—  
  
"Seatan!" He turned around, glad for the interruption. His grandson watched him blandly, as unhappy about the whole thing as his grandfather.  
  
Neither saw the person who had forced Seatan to give his lands and titles over to Deamonar lurking in the shadows behind the desk, neither heard him curse silently as Sylvia entered the room, smiling a bit too cheerfully, telling Seatan Mikal had something important to tell him.  
  
The man in the shadows cursed silently again, watching as the two disappeared. Deamonar made sure no one was looking, picked up the papers, and cheerfully ripped them in half, putting an Ebon-Gray shield around them.  
  
The young man went out of the room with his hands in his trouser pockets, whistling. A trip to Terreille, he thought. To get away from things.  
  
Tevrin Gleeash, the man in the shadows, swore, broke the Ebon-Gray shield, took the papers, and left.  
  
14/Terreille  
  
Percival Gleeash crept through the corridors of the palace at Dreaga, looking for the Queen, Rose, and the pleasure slave Lorn Olbaidas. No, he corrected himself silently. Seatan Deamon SaDiablo III.  
  
There was a Black sight shield wrapped around them, and they walked quietly enough across the carpeted floor, but he still knew where they were. He crept up behind them, but they disappeared into a room that had a Red lock on the door, one that Lorn easily snapped.  
  
Percival cursed silently as the Black lock snapped across the door. It would slow him down, but he could break it. He knelt by the door, concentrating on the lock…  
  
Then the Black was unleashed.  
  
15/Terreille  
  
Deamonar sat in a small rat-infested tavern in Pruul, listening to the mindless chatter of the other patrons when he felt the surge of Black power rush through. He sat bolt upright, knowing that most of the others wouldn't be able to feel it, and knowing with equal certainty that it was his cousin, Seatan III, who was unleashing the Black.  
  
He smiled, sat back, fortifying those psychic waves with his own Ebon- Gray strength, only wishing he could have joined his cousin in the bloodletting.  
  
Send the to Hell, send them all to Hell.  
  
16/Terreille  
  
Dreaga was left in total devastation. Some had survived. Some had not. Some had known to ride those psychic waves. Those who hadn't known were dead. Most were at least broken back to their Birthright Jewel.  
  
Hekatah lay on the floor of her room, whimpering. The tangled web had nearly closed her inner barriers, using its Ebon-Gray strength to push against her Red strength, impairing her ability to use the Jewels. But she had rode out those waves; survived for a few hours longer.  
  
Palas stared at his shattered Opal Jewel. Not drained, but shattered. He had been broken back to his Birthright Summer-sky, others had been broken, and some had been killed. How had he done it? That bastard pleasure slave had killed and broken so many, and how long had it taken? A minute, two minutes? He was sure they had felt it all the way in Chaillot, though probably the deaths were mainly limited to Dreaga and Hayll.  
  
But he was broken back to his Birthright. That son of a bitch had broken him back to his Birthright.  
  
Fharquar Desbris was a Red-Jeweled Prince, Hekatah's equal in every way. Except he was stronger. There were levels of strength in every Jewel, and his was just a little deeper, just a little darker than hers. He didn't answer to Hekatah; he answered directly to the Gleeash brothers. He didn't serve in Rose's Court, and never had, but he had hung around there often enough that no one gave him a second glance when he loitered in the halls. It was a perfect setup.  
  
Except now he had confirmation that there was indeed someone who wore the Black in the palace. This person would most definitely have to be dealt with. And if he and the two Gleeash brothers braided their strength together, they would no problem erasing the troublesome Black.  
  
17/Terreille  
  
Jordan sat on the floor, stunned but not hurt. Rose was rocked a bit, but intact. Lorn sat in a corner, his head in his hands, a pulsing Black shield around him. Rose sent out a gentle psychic probe to him, but encountered only a turmoil of thoughts and feeling whizzing so fast she couldn't follow them.  
  
What had happened to drive him to the killing edge so fast? He and Rose had entered the room, he had dropped the Black sight shield and put a Black lock on the door. A few seconds had passed, and he was riding the killing edge, unleashing the Black. Why?  
  
18/Kealeer  
  
Surreal sat weaving a tangled web under Jeanelle's watchful gaze, finding it hard going. She had never been trained, but she had always been quick to pick up things without being taught.  
  
As the slimy strings took shape under her fingers, Surreal began to see...something…An Opal-Jeweled Prince, a Gray-Jeweled Black Widow; a Black- Jeweled Warlord Prince, a Gray-Jeweled Queen; a rose whose thorns had been blunted, but were still sharp; deaths, so many; the death of every Queen, every Warlord Prince, and every Black Widow. And always the phrase ringing mockingly through her ears: beware the golden spider that spins a tangled web.  
  
19/The Darkness  
  
Deamon Sadi gazed at the Arachnian Queen he had known. She had worn the Black, had been powerful. He had worn the Black. She was pulling together enough of herself to weave one last tangled web, using up the psychic strength she had been saving for over twenty years. Soon she would return from the Darkness, and he would be left alone here. He had found Andulvar, Prothvar, Mephis, Titian, all the others who had returned to the Darkness, but rarely spoke with them. Only the Arachnian Queen. Her form congealed into a tiny glowing ball of golden light, then winked out, leaving him alone once more, a shade of his former self, a whisper flitting through the Darkness.  
  
20/Kealeer  
  
The Arachnian Queen had only strength enough left to weave one more tangled web, one that would seal the fate of all those who resided in the three Realms, living and dead, and bring the war between Terreille and Kealeer to a beginning and to an end. Some would survive; most would not. But all their fates would be spelled in her last tangled web, for she was the greatest of the weavers, the Weaver of Dreams, and no Arachnian Queen as powerful as her would ever come. Those whose strings ended in her tangled web would die, but those who lived would have the chance to discover why Terreille had once been called the Realm of Light. Whether or not they took that chance was up to them. 


	5. Beware the Golden Spider that spins a Ta...

Chapter 5  
  
Four months later  
  
1/Terreille  
  
Hekatah could feel the web closing in on her, day after day, hour after hour. She knew she didn't have much time left. But there was one thing she had to do before the web smashed her inner barriers.  
  
So she went looking for Lorn Olbaidas.  
  
He sat on one side of the tree, his beck resting against the rough bark of the trunk, Rose stretched out across his chest, asleep. Jordan sprawled out nearby, also asleep. Perfect. She crossed over to him, knelt down by him, smiled a wicked little smile at him.  
  
He didn't smile back.  
  
"Why isn't she dead?" Hekatah asked, nodding towards Rose. "Why haven't you killed her, Prince?"  
  
"For what?" he asked, his summer-sky eyes narrowing, darkening into sapphire.  
  
"For giving the order to have your father killed."  
  
"Because she didn't."  
  
Hekatah started in mock surprise. "She told you that? And you believed her?"  
  
"I have more reason to believe her than to believe you."  
  
"What reason did she give, Prince?" the Priestess asked slyly. "What convincing proof did she present you with?"  
  
"She was only ten when my father died."  
  
"No she wasn't. Your father died two years ago. She's twenty, not eighteen. She formed her Court and her first order as Queen was to have your father executed." She saw with satisfaction the suspicion in his eyes, how they narrowed even further. He shook the sleeping girl. Her violet eyes blinked open, her brow furrowed.  
  
"What is it?" she asked sleepily, then gave a startled yelp when she saw Hekatah.  
  
"How old are you?" he asked her.  
  
"How old people usually are the year the make the Offering: eighteen."  
  
"Are you sure you didn't make the Offering late? Are you sure you're not twenty and that my father didn't die eight years ago, but two?"  
  
"Yes, of course I'm…" her voice trailed off as she stared into his hard sapphire eyes. "Lorn, I swear to you…by the Jewels, I swear…"  
  
He turned from her to Hekatah, not sure who to believe. Sending out a gentle psychic probe, he brushed Rose's mind. Her inner barriers were still fragile from when Hekatah had forced them open all those months ago, so he only pushed gently. But he wasn't gentle after he found out what was in her mind. The tree didn't survive. Neither did Hekatah. Rose nearly didn't but she was smart enough to flee before he turned the full fury of his wrath on her.  
  
Jordan slept through it all, his own guilt well hidden from all but a demon-dead wolf and a Black Widow Harpy.  
  
2/Kealeer  
  
The Arachnian Queen sat looking contentedly at her tangled web. Some threads were already darkened: the first deaths. There would be many more. She had woven it as it would be; there would be no changing the future now, it was locked for eternity in the ethereal threads of this web, unalterable.  
  
So many would die. Few Queens would be left, fewer still Black Widows and Warlord Princes. This time, the war was coming, and there was nothing Witch could do about it. There was nothing Kealeer's Heart could do about it. But the Queen of Ebon Askavi…  
  
3/Kealeer  
  
"The war is coming, Jeanelle, there's nothing you can do to stop it this time," Surreal repeated vehemently. They had had this conversation over and over again, ever since Surreal had woven that tangled web and seen the death of every Queen, Warlord Prince and Black Widow in it. "Perhaps as the Queen of Ebon Askavi, but not just as yourself."  
  
"Do you doubt me?" Witch asked. She had been facing the window, looking out through the craggy edges into the landscape beyond the Keep. Now she turned around, and Surreal sucked in her breath, seeing Witch for the first time in her true form. The back spidersilk gown, not quite long enough to hide the legs that ended in dainty hooves, the graceful spiral horn rising out from the center of her forehead, the sheathed claws, the delicately pointed ears. And the sapphire eyes boring into her skull, giving her no chance to lie, no chance to think about lying.  
  
"No, Lady, I've never doubted, and I'm not starting now."  
  
"You are strong Surreal, but not wise. You don't understand. You'll never be able to."  
  
"Why? Because I haven't lost as much as you? Falonar returned to the Darkness last year, said he didn't want to try to hold on, to wait for the next war, to go through that kind of suffering again. Do you really think there's any difference between his death and Deamon's? And do you think—"  
  
"No, Surreal, I don't. But you've never been a Queen. You don't know how hard it is to tell a friend to pick up a weapon and go to war, knowing the chances aren't good that he'll ever come back. You don't know how heavy the responsibility of all those lives is. You never could. That is why I won't ascend to the Dark Throne again, won't take the responsibility for all Kealeer on my shoulders again."  
  
"Well," Surreal said with the slightest hint of a snarl in her voice. "If you're not strong enough, I know someone who is."  
  
Jeanelle stood there long after the Harpy had left, wondering who she had thought strong enough to sit on the Dark Throne of Ebon Askavi.  
  
4/Terreille  
  
"Hello, Seatan."  
  
Lorn whirled around at the mention of his true name in a voice he'd never heard before, a quiet tenor voice that spoke of hidden strength. He recognized the psychic scent of a fellow Warlord Prince before he turned around. Recognized the Gray, and the Silver Invisible Ring. If he wore the Silver, this wasn't one of Hekatah's stooges.  
  
"Who are you?" Lorn asked coolly, studying the newcomer. He had long, gracefully curving Eyrien wings and delicately pointed ears, as well as the gold-green eyes of a half-breed. Behind him, Jordan let out a gasp of surprise. Lorn looked again into the Eyrien's eyes, and saw a deep, unquenchable rage; so ice-cold it was almost warm in its intensity. And for some reason, this Gray-Jeweled Warlord Prince, not as strong as his Black- Jeweled strength, frightened him. "Who are you?  
  
"I am vengeance."  
  
5/Kealeer  
  
The Ebon. She'd worn the Ebon for so long, and was still getting used to it. It would probably take her a lifetime or longer to get used to the psychic strain of wearing the Ebon. It was so very heavy.  
  
She sat by the fire, fiddling with the hearth-craft her Aunt Marian had taught her. She wasn't a Black Widow, wasn't a Healer. But she was Witch. The thought both frightened and excited her, wanted to make her howl with joy and pain, rage and celebration.  
  
She had never wanted to control anyone's life but her own, never wanted to exert her Ebon-Jeweled power over anyone. But her mother, her demon-dead, Gray-Jeweled, Black Widow mother had asked her to reign at Ebon Askavi. She hadn't seen Surreal in the thirteen or so years since her death, and now she wanted Kit to be the Queen of Ebon Askavi. Because she was Witch. Because she was strong enough. Because Jeanelle wouldn't. Because of what she'd seen in the tangled web that she hadn't told Jeanelle: Witch couldn't stop the war; Kealeer's Heart couldn't stop the war. But the Queen of Ebon Askavi could.  
  
6/Terreille  
  
Rose hid under a bush, trying not to listen to the sounds of the two men fighting. Jordan had scrambled out of the way fast, leaving the two Warlord Princes a wide stretch of meadow to battle in. Gray and Black fought. Selves fought. Minds fought. Bodies fought. And, despite wearing the lighter Jewel, the Eyrien seemed to burn with a rage that gave him dominance over Lorn.  
  
Arnar jumped high in the air, coming down with a boost from his Gray Jewels, landing squarely on Lorn's back. The older man grunted. He shouted again to his attacker: "What did I do?" but the Eyrien pressed the attack, not relenting enough to answer.  
  
Lorn broke free and ran back a few steps, pausing to create a Black shield around himself. "What did I do?" he called again.  
  
"You killed the only Queen who could have stood up to Hekatah's oppression."  
  
"You mean Rose?" Lorn sneered. "I wish I had. She got away."  
  
"You deserve to die even for trying!" the young Eyrien was about to hurl himself against the Black shield, but Lorn held up a hand.  
  
"No wait. She killed my father."  
  
"Your father died years ago. She must have been only ten, or twelve at the most."  
  
"No, he—"  
  
"I knew your father, dammit!" Arnar cried. "I saw him die." The Eyrien choked back a sob. "It was awful. Twenty, thirty men, all wearing dark Jewels, came down on him, with their strength braided together. He had no chance. I saw him die, damn you! I saw him die nine years ago! She had nothing to do with your father's death!"  
  
Lorn dropped the Black shield, falling to his knees. Slowly, he pivoted his body so he faced the bush Rose was hiding under.  
  
"Come out Rose," he whispered in a chocked voice. "Come out, darling. I know you're there." Hesitantly, she scrambled out from under the bush, crossing the meadow to him, and knelt by his side. "Why did I ever doubt you?"  
  
"Because Hekatah put that in my mind when she ripped my inner barriers open," the girl replied. "The truth is I'm eighteen and I had nothing to do with your father's death. But you wouldn't listen to me. Just what was in my mind; and Hekatah put that there."  
  
"I'm so sorry," he whispered, crying softly into her shoulder. She hugged him, stroked his hair gently until he had no more tears left to cry.  
  
7/Terreille  
  
Arnar sat with his back against a tree, his eyes closed. He felt strangely out of place among the other three who had obviously known each other for so long. He sent out a gentle psychic thought to his mother on a Gray communication thread, needing her support. He didn't really expect to get an answer, so he was a bit surprised when he got a sharp What?  
  
Mum? Is that really you?  
  
Of course it's me. What?  
  
Nothing, I'm just…I feel so alone. I think there's going to be a war between Terreille and Kealeer, and I'm going to be caught right in the middle of it. Just me, and these three other people. I hardly even know them, I only met them today, but they're all I've got left.  
  
What do you mean? she asked. Her tone was patient, and though slightly exasperated, understanding.  
  
We're here in Terreille, in Dreaga no less, and it's just the four of us against hordes of Hekatah's minions.  
  
Who are they?  
  
Rose was the Queen, but she faked her death and then there's Jeanelle's son Seatan. He broke the Ring of Obedience and turned rogue so he could serve Rose. And Jordan was her Master of the Guard.  
  
Even the most beautiful Rose has thorns. She seemed to mummer it to herself, perhaps he wasn't meant to hear it, but he did.  
  
What?  
  
Nothing. There's nothing I can do. If you can get back to Kealeer, that's great, but if you can't… she paused. And no matter what, don't let anything happen to your sister. If she accepts to be Queen of the Dark Court of Ebon Askavi… his mind stumbled …she'll be the most important person in all three Realms.  
  
Wait, what about you?  
  
There's going to be a war. Most of us won't survive it.  
  
And then she was gone.  
  
9/Terreille  
  
Jordan knelt down by Arnar, his head hung guiltily. The Eyrien glanced sharply at him, then turned to look once more out across the meadow.  
  
"You remind me of someone," the Master of the Guard said. "I was wondering if you might have known her."  
  
"Probably not," Arnar scowled, continuing to gaze at the trees at the far side of the open space.  
  
"She was a young Dea al Mon witch, though she looked rather Hayllian. You know: black hair, tan skin. But with pointed ears and gold-green eyes."  
  
Arnar looked sharply at the taller man. Then he returned his gaze to the grass and whispered, "She was my mother."  
  
Jordan nodded, his tongue caught between his teeth, his stomach knotting into various abstract shapes. He knew that he and this young man would have to learn to trust each other, and so the Eyrien would have to know the truth. "I killed her." Arnar was on his feet in a flash, his hands around Jordan's neck, lifting the Master off the ground. Jordan gasped in pain as rod dots exploded before his vision. "Can we please talk!?" he managed to gasp.  
  
His answer was to have the hands tighten around his throat. "Please?" he panted. "Let me explain, and then I promise you can strangle me if—" The hands tightened for a moment, making his vision waver, then loosened. He dropped to the ground.  
  
"Explain." Jordan found himself looking into eyes filled with a deep primordial rage that only blood could quench. The Master of the Guard found himself trembling.  
  
"It was one of those routine things, you know: kill the enemy! Kill…" his voice tapered off, ending in a frightened gurgle. "If it helps any, I didn't know she was your mother." The stare didn't lighten; the anger didn't ease. Jordan shrugged. "Go ahead and strangle me, then. I just thought you ought to know the truth."  
  
Arnar's hand reached for his throat again, then stopped. "On whose orders?"  
  
"Hekatah's."  
  
"What did she do to you?"  
  
"Beg pardon?"  
  
"What did she do to you to make you kill innocent people?" Not that his mother was particularly innocent, but he wasn't about to say that.  
  
"I served her," Jordan shrugged. "I had to do as she said, otherwise she'd enslave me and Ring me."  
  
"At least you told the truth," Arnar whispered. "If you had hidden it from me, nothing in the three Realms could have saved you."  
  
"Thank you, for sparing my life."  
  
"This time," Arnar whispered threateningly. "This time." 


	6. There is no cure for Briarwood

Chapter 6  
  
Three months later, the war has begun  
  
1/Kealeer  
  
In Little Terreille…  
  
Blood and fire erupted in the streets; blasts of Jeweled power shook whole cities. They struggled throughout Glacia; Scelt was a battleground. Even the kindred could not retreat into their territories, and the non- human Blood fought alongside their human Brothers and Sisters.  
  
In a small back-alley in the most run-down section of Goth, Surreal waited patiently, her Gray Jewel lashing out at anyone who happened to stumble too close, her stiletto clutched in one hand.  
  
Her demon-dead, Red-Jeweled Warlord father had not, in fact, returned to the Darkness as she had thought. And now he walked the living Realms once more, hardly anything more than a skeleton, but somehow twice as powerful as he had ever been as a living man. And though she might burn out in the doing, she was going to rid Kealeer of the walking plague that went by the name of Kartane SaDiablo.  
  
In Glacia…  
  
Karla winced as the sword pierced her arm. She spun around with a growl, her unwounded fist smacking hard into her attacker's jaw. She winced again as a knife blade severed her back, just below her collarbone. Iron. That's what my fist must have hit, she thought in a daze of pain. Ruefully, the Glacian Queen glanced at the broken fingers, watching them dangle helplessly from the wrist. She looked up in time to see her Consort, Jeremy, fall. His Green Jewel had finally given out against the braided strengths of the Green, the Opal and the Summer-sky.  
  
Finally deciding it was time to teach her own attacker a lesson with her Gray strength, she whirled around to face him. She screamed when he drove a sword through her heart. She screamed when his Jewel ripped through her inner barriers, tearing her mind apart. She tried to scream as she felt her Self leave her body, but couldn't get the sound out.  
  
Percival Gleeash looked down with satisfaction at the dead Queen impaled on his sword. He shook her off, made a single brush against her inner barriers to make sure the kill was really finished, then caught the Winds to see how his brother was fairing with the Queen of Scelt.  
  
In Scelt…  
  
The Sapphire-Jeweled demon-dead Warlord of Mahgre, Khardeen, crept through the halls of his home. He hadn't been here since he'd died; it would have been too painful to see the fear in his daughter's eyes every time she looked at him. But now he had come back, to find only death and blood. He had been killed in a raid several years ago, but it hadn't been as large, or as organized, as this one. Most of the servants had been killed and butchered; only a few remained alive. Who knew where Morghann and Carrie were. He slunk around a corner, never knowing his own destruction waited around the bend.  
  
Carrie suppressed a cry of righteous indignation as the Tiger Eye-Jeweled butler bumped into her Red sight shield by accident. She was even more outraged when another butler, a Purple Dusk-Jeweled Warlord, called her name softly. As if she wasn't capable of taking care of herself! She was a Red-Jeweled 24-year-old Queen, every bit as competent as her mother…  
  
Where was Morghann?  
  
He won't be able to finish the kill; he can't wear a Jewel darker than the Red, Morghann thought as she felt her own blood trickle through her fingers, running over the collar of her shirt and staining it scarlet. She fell to her knees, trying to catch a breath, failing. She gritted her teeth as a fresh wave of pain washed through her. At least he won't be able to finish the kill…  
  
How surprised she was to find herself nothing but a whisper in the Darkness, never even knowing who had killed her.  
  
In Little Terreille…  
  
The Red exploded, knocking Surreal backwards, head over heels. It shouldn't be able to do that. She wore the Gray. She was stronger than Kartane.  
  
Or what used to be Kartane.  
  
He was nothing but a rotted skeleton, decomposing strips of flesh hanging from white, glistening bone. Eyeless sockets stared eerily at her. She tried to stare back, but something in that gaze frightened her.  
  
She rushed at him, unleashing the Gray, bringing the full force of her Jewels down on him at the same moment she plunged the stiletto into where his heart might once have been. She jerked the knife sideways, splattering dried blood and cold flesh all over herself and the monster that had been her father.  
  
He didn't seem to notice.  
  
He stretched out a hand, reaching for her throat. She felt skeletal fingers settle across the open wound that had killed her, their skinless fingertips digging into the sides of her neck. She struggled, hacked at his hand with the stiletto.  
  
It did no good.  
  
He unloosed the Red through his fingertips, hammering at her inner barriers. Normally, she would only have felt it as an inconvenience.  
  
Now she knew it could kill her.  
  
She hacked at his neck, unleashing the Gray in short bursts to aid her. His spinal chord snapped in half, leaving his head dangling from the rest of his body by only a thin strip of flesh.  
  
She felt her inner barriers begin to weaken under the constant barrage of Red power, but she pressed on, striking him with knife and Jewels. He called in a knife, and before she could put up a Gray shield, he plunged it into her stomach, spewing blood and gastric juices alike on the cold stone ground of the alley.  
  
Inner barriers slipping open, lifeblood flowing from the gaping wound in her stomach, Surreal slumped against the cold, harsh stone of the wall. She gathered up every once of Gray strength she had left. Even as his Red swept into her mind, wiping out her existence, she threw everything she had at him, blowing his mind and what was left of his body apart. Surreal slipped slowly to the ground, into a growing pool of her own blood.  
  
She had burnt out in the doing, but she had splattered his blood all over the walls.  
  
In Arachnia…  
  
Four strands of the Weaver's tangled web darkened, their color deepening into a bloody scarlet. The first four deaths, the Weaver thought as she sat back, calm and relaxed. But there will be more…so many more.  
  
In Dea al Mon…  
  
Gabrielle ran through the woods, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Behind her, she could hear Chaosti's labored breathing. Exhausted, mentally and physically, she slumped against a tree, clutching at her stomach in an attempt to keep from vomiting. Chaosti stumbled up to her, collapsing on his knees. They had been running for a lifetime, it seemed. It must only have been a few hours. Gabrielle's entire Court had been slaughtered, and only her, Chaosti, and their twin son and daughter had escaped. But the nineteen-year old Black Widow Healer Queen and Warlord Prince had vanished. Now it was just Gabrielle and Chaosti. A Gray-Jeweled Queen whose Jewels had been drained and a Red-Jeweled Warlord Prince who was too emotionally drained, after seeing his father, sister and two brothers murdered, to go on. Gabrielle caught her breath, standing up on shaking legs, and glanced around. The trees loomed over her, making her feel tiny and insignificant. At forty-one, she was a Queen in her prime, still young, but the trees lived far longer than even the Hayllians. What did the trees care about her? Or about Choasti? The youngest tree in this ancient forest must be over two thousand.  
  
Once, she had felt comfortable, at home, among the towering trees, but now any one of them could conceal an enemy lying in wait, ready to pounce on her. She turned, stumbling forward. All they had to do was get out of the trees…  
  
Behind her, she heard Choasti cry out breathlessly. She whirled around. He cried out again. She stumbled backwards, into the trunk of a tree. She clutched at the bark, only to find clothes under her groping fingers. A strong arm wrapped around her neck as a huge hand clamped her hands behind her back. She struggled futilely, screamed breathlessly, until his Jeweled strength ripped open her already weakened inner barriers. She fell to the ground, Choasti kneeling over her. His hands, stained with his own blood, stroked her hair gently. The last thing she remembered was him crying out in pain, his body falling across her legs.  
  
In Glacia…  
  
Jeremy, Karla's Master of the Guard, and Consort when she had been alive, looked down at the gaping wound in his stomach. It wasn't fatal. He could no longer wear the Green. But he still wore his Birthright Summer- sky. He looked down angrily at the Summer-sky ring circling his finger. He looked down wistfully at the Master of the Gaurd's Ring around his left ring finger. He looked back sorrowfully at his burning home. He didn't dare look back at the body of his dead Queen, for fear of the emotions that might come boiling to the surface.  
  
Slowly, painfully, he began to crawl in the direction of SaDiablo Hall in Dhelman.  
  
In Nharkhava…  
  
Elaeina sat miserably in a corner, hoping her Sapphire shield would protect her. She knew it probably wouldn't. A wiry, greasy Hallyian man slunk out a side chamber, his teeth bared in a feral grin. She didn't dare send out a psychic probe to discover what Jewels he wore, in case they were darker than her Sapphire.  
  
Her father, Prince Aaron, rushed into the room, a bloody sword in his hand, his head drooping with fatigue, but his Red power still strong. When he saw the wiry man, a Red shield snapped up around him as he raised the sword. The man simply pointed into the side chamber he had just emerged from. Warily, Aaron lowered the sword and entered the chamber. An agonized scream tore itself from his throat as he nearly flew out again, lunging at the man.  
  
"You murdering bastard! You…" The man crossed his arms over his chest as Aaron's sword bounced off the man's shield. Aaron growled, pulling himself together, circling slowly around his prey.  
  
The man just raised his eyebrow.  
  
With lightning speed, Aaron pulled a dagger out of his boot, sending it flying at the man, aiding it with a bolt of Red power to get it through the man's lighter shield.  
  
Except the man's shield wasn't lighter.  
  
The dagger clattered to the floor, its tip bent backwards. Aaron gaped at it. He snarled at the man.  
  
"What did I do?" the man asked, his greasy voice filled with fake innocence.  
  
"You killed my wife," Aaron whispered, his voice thick with rage.  
  
"Really?" the man asked. "I didn't know."  
  
Aaron's muscles uncoiled. He sprung at the man, throwing every bit of physical and psychic power he possessed at him. It did no good. The man just stood there, continuing to smile. He continued to smile even while he drove his knife through Aaron's heart, and a burst of Jeweled power finished the kill.  
  
Elaeina choked back a gasp as a few drops of her father's blood spattered against her Sapphire shield. The man whirled to face her, advancing slowly, bloody dagger raised.  
  
She bolted, hating herself for every step she took away from her parents' killer. She was a Sapphire-Jeweled Queen. She shouldn't run.  
  
His dagger clattered against the wall near her shoulder, erasing any quirks of honor she might have felt.  
  
She ran, and didn't even look back.  
  
In Arachnia…  
  
Four more strands of the web darkened into a bloody hue. More deaths. And still there would be more…  
  
2/Terreille  
  
The Metallic Jewels. They were in a rank system all their own, unbound by the laws that restricted the normal Jewels. Few people knew what they were. Fewer still had worn them. They were Brass, Bronze, Copper, Silver and Gold. No one had ever worn the Gold or the Silver. To wear the Gold, not only was psychic strength needed, but the Gold Ring was also needed. To wear the Silver, the Silver Ring was needed. Percival and Tevrin Gleeash were the first to wear the Copper.  
  
After the Offering to the Darkness, a person could wear a Metallic Jewel, but not before. And the number of people who had worn the Metallic Jewels could be counted on one hand: Lorn, the last Dragon Prince, Draca, the last Dragon Queen, a Terreillian flute-maker who had died over 60,000 years ago, and the two Gleeash brothers.  
  
Mikal DeLànge knelt in front of the Dark Altar. Behind him, the Priestess asked one question.  
  
"Do you wear the Gold Ring?"  
  
"No, I…" but her remembered Llyia, the Gray-Jeweled Black Widow Healer, the future Queen of the Dea al Mon. He remembered the first time he had met her, how disappointed he had been to see the Gray hanging around her neck. No Gray-Jeweled Black Widow Healer Queen would even consider having a Summer-sky-Jeweled Warlord as a Consort. Especially since he was of a different race than her. Perhaps, if he wore a darker Jewel, he might have a chance with her, but he knew he would never be able to equal her psychic strength. But, by the Darkness, he would never give up loving her.  
  
He paused. He couldn't lie to a Priestess. "I wear the Gold."  
  
She nodded. He began the Offering to the Darkness.  
  
3/ Terreille  
  
Fharquar Desbris wandered aimlessly through the halls of the palace at Dreaga. After Rose had died, Lady Sabrina had ascended the throne. She was strong; there was no doubt about that. Fharquar had spent so much time and so much effort manipulating Hekatah into putting a maneuverable Queen on the throne of Hayll, and then this Black Widow Sapphire-Jeweled interloper had come along and turned Hayll into a place that was actually bearable to live in. She had withdrawn the domination Rose had established in other Territories, and had set up a Court filled with people who still honored the old ways of the Blood. She had also formed an alliance with the Gray-Jeweled Queen of Dena Nehele, Lady Ardelia. Those two, along with Eraihia, the Queen of Dhelman Terreille, had offered allegiance to Kealeer, and now fought against their own Realm.  
  
Fharquar paused outside the door to Sabrina's suit. He knocked gently. She opened the door suddenly, catching him with his hand raised to knock again. She was a tall, slender witch dressed in her black Widow's weeds. Her black hair was long and silky, her golden eyes glittered.  
  
He bit his tongue.  
  
She laughed at his ridiculous expression. Her voice was light, silvery. He bit his tongue harder.  
  
"Won't you come in?" she asked, her smile plainly showing.  
  
He nodded and bowed awkwardly, his tongue still clenched between his teeth.  
  
4/Kealeer  
  
Deamonar Yaslana opened the door to Kitarian's room, slipped in, and softly closed the door behind him. She turned, smiling when she saw him. He wrapped her in a hug, his fingers gently stroking the tops of her gracefully curving wings as she wound her arms around his muscular shoulders.  
  
"How are you?" he asked, pulling away enough to look into her gold- green eyes.  
  
"Well enough," she replied lightly, drawing him into a kiss.  
  
"No, really," he whispered, pulling away again. "Are you all right?"  
  
"Yes." She sighed. "I'm all right."  
  
But he caught a glimpse of uncertainty deep in her eyes. "What's wrong?" She turned away, going back to the fire. "Kit?"  
  
"Mum asked me to form my Court."  
  
"Well, you're a Queen, you…"  
  
"The Dark Court of Ebon Askavi."  
  
The only sound was the crackling of the fire. Kit stare into the flames, hearing the rustling of Deamonar's wings opening, feeling the rush of wind as he closed them again.  
  
There was a tap on the door. Kit crossed the room, opened the door, thanked the courier, and opened the note.  
  
Lady Kitarian of Askavi,  
  
It is my painful duty to inform you that a Black-Jeweled Warlord Prince, a rogue pleasure slave, has murdered your brother, Arnar, the Warlord Prince of Askavi. Steps are being taken to deal with this man. You have my sincere regret.  
  
Prince Palas, Steward to the Court of Hayll  
  
Kit chocked back a sob. "Arnar."  
  
"What is it?" Deamonar asked, crossing over to her. "What does the letter say?" Wordlessly, she handed him the note. He snarled his way through it, crumpled it up and threw it into the fire. "I'm going to Terreille."  
  
"What!?"  
  
"I said I'm going to Terreille. Whoever this Prince Palas is, I don't trust him. It may be a trap. If it is, I'm not going to let you be the one to spring it."  
  
"Deamonar…"  
  
"No. I'm going to Terreille."  
  
"Deamonar, I've already lost my parents and my brother. I don't want to lose you, too."  
  
"Don't worry, Kit. You won't lose me." He kissed her one last time, then caught the Ebon-gray wind to the nearest Gate.  
  
For a long time after he had gone, Kit stood at the door, watching the spot he had been standing in, tears coursing their silent paths down her cheeks.  
  
5/Terreille  
  
From sunrise to sunset. That was how long an Offering to the Darkness took. Sunrise to sunset. Mikal's had taken three sunrises. He had come away with a Jewel he had never even heard of before, let alone dreamt of wearing. What were the Metallic Jewels? He had asked the Priestess. She hadn't known. But he wore the Silver. Not just the Silver Ring, but also the Silver Jewel. But he had gained more than a vast reservoir of Jeweled power, but now he knew that while he wore the Silver Jewel, he wore the Gold Ring.  
  
Lady Lyia's Gold Ring.  
  
6/Terreille  
  
"Well, hello, there. Prince Palas, I presume?" Deamonar asked in a deceptively quiet voice. A nearly perfect imitation of Arnar.  
  
The Prince straightened. "Yes, that is I." He realized he was quietly being assessed by this Eyrien warrior. Quietly and efficiently. The Eyrien was tall and muscular, his wings large and impressive. Palas was muscular, too, and tall. But he lacked the cunning prowess of the other man. And he lacked the psychic strength. He wore the Summer-sky, while this Eyrien wore the Ebon-gray.  
  
"Are you the Steward to the Court of Hayll?" the Eyrien asked in that too-quiet voice.  
  
"The previous Court, yes."  
  
"Did you make up the story about a Black-Jeweled rogue killing the Warlord Prince of Askavi just to lure his sister here?"  
  
"Of course not! It's true!"  
  
"Are you sure?"  
  
Palas puffed himself up. "Do you question my honesty, my honor?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
Palas snarled at the Eyrien. The Eyrien snarled back. Palas trembled; the Eyrien was a better snarler. The former Steward quailed under the hard, golden eyes. "Yes, I made it up," he whispered.  
  
"That's nice," the Eyrien said sarcastically.  
  
"Who are you?" Palas asked, wondering if he had met the man and somehow forgotten him.  
  
"I am vengeance."  
  
7/Terreille  
  
Fharquar sat at the table opposite Sabrina. She had offered him tea, coffee and wine, and had finally resorted to beer to get his attention on something else. He had refused all the offered beverages, even the beer. He just couldn't take his eyes off her lovely face.  
  
"Now, what did you want to talk to me about, Prince?" she asked, propping her chin up on her hand. He blinked. "Prince?"  
  
"Oh, yes, right…uh…" what had he wanted to talk about? Oh, yes, the alliance with Dena Nehele and Dhelman Terreille against Terreille. "Um…about your alliance with Kealeer…I think that…"  
  
"Oh that?" she asked, waving her hand dismissively. "I've been lectured on that decision enough by my Steward, my Master of the Guard, my First Escort, my entire First Circle –"  
  
"You mean you don't have a Consort?"  
  
She shook her head briefly, then went on. He began to hope.  
  
"…Most of the people in my Second Circle, my father, both my brothers, all the Province Queens and their Masters of the Guard and Stewards, and most of the District Queens and their Masters of the Guards and Stewards. I don't think I need the same lecture again." She had a sense of humor, too.  
  
"Well, as I was…um…saying…is that…"  
  
"Wait a minute." She held up a hand, sniffing his psychic sent. "Prince, you're –"  
  
"Fharquar, please. I feel like a damn dog when people call me Prince."  
  
She raised an eyebrow, then said again, "Pr…Fharquar, you're not a…virgin, are you?"  
  
He shifted uncomfortably in his chair.  
  
"Well," she said, smiling. "We'll have to rectify that, won't we?" He hoped some more. She called in a quill and paper, scribbled something down, and handed it to him. "There's the address of a nearby Red Moon house." Yes, she definitely had a sense of humor, except she wasn't exactly joking.  
  
He nodded his dazed thanks to her. He would have preferred to correct the oversight in her bed, and he didn't particularly like the idea of using a Red Moon house, but he pocketed the paper so as not to give her any hint of his disappointment.  
  
"So…you really don't have a Consort?" he asked again, wanting to make sure.  
  
"No, I don't."  
  
"You're sure?"  
  
"Yes, Pri—Farqhuar, I'm sure." She paused. "Why?"  
  
"No reason. Just wondering."  
  
She raised an eyebrow, leaning back in her chair and crossing her arms. Damn, she was graceful. "No reason?"  
  
"No," he replied uneasily, a bit unsure of himself now.  
  
"You're sure?"  
  
"Yes, Lady, I'm sure."  
  
They studied each other for a few more moments. Sabrina eyed him from head to what she could see above the table. Muscular, certainly. Handsome, yes. His black hair was cut short, and hung in layers across his gold eyes. Those eyes…they had an odd slant to them that gave him a very worried look. But there was something more in them than just lust. Something more than a hunger for power. She smiled, called in a box, and tossed it to him.  
  
A little breathlessly, hardly daring to hope, he opened it, saw the flash of gold inside, saw the ruby glittering in the sunlight streaming in through the windows. The Consort's Ring. He blew his thick hair out of his eyes, trying to draw a breath and finding it very difficult.  
  
She smiled at him, slipped the address to the Red Moon house out of his pocket, tore it in half, ruffled his hair affectionately, and left.  
  
He leaned back in his chair, wondering if this was actually happening. On a Red spear thread, he sent a question out into the Darkness, wondering if he would actually be answered, wondering what he would hear if he was answered.  
  
To wear the Gold Ring, do you first have to wear the Silver Ring?  
  
A sense of dark power, Black power. Yes, you do.  
  
Then I wear the Silver?  
  
Yes, you do.  
  
And I wear the Gold, right?  
  
Yes. You do.  
  
8/Kealeer  
  
Mikal faced his parents across the wide breakfast table. They knew he had made the Offering to the Darkness while he had been in Terreille. He knew that they knew, and they knew that he knew that they knew. Mikal tried to figure out how much each of them knew about the Offering, but just left it at he knew that they knew and they knew that he knew.  
  
"You made the Offering while you were away," Sylvia said slowly, spacing out the words. It wasn't a question; she knew that he knew that she knew that he had made the Offering.  
  
"Yes," he replied tightly. "And I know that both of you know that I know that you know."  
  
Seatan held up a hand. "I'm getting a headache. Leave out all the 'know's and 'knew's and just tell us the basics. If you don't want to tell us what Jewel you wear now, that's fine, but I just want to make sure that you know that we know that you know that we want to make sure—"  
  
Sylvia raised an eyebrow at him. Mikal chuckled. It was wonderful to watch his stepfather slip up like that.  
  
"Anyway…" Seatan continued through gritted teeth.  
  
Mikal cut him off. "Have either of you ever heard of the Metallic Jewels?"  
  
Seatan frowned, his expression growing somber and pensive. Mikal noted that the expression didn't really go with the rumpled pants, the white shirt, and the black pullover sweater-vest Seatan was wearing. He noted Sylvia noting the same thing. He noted that Seatan knew that they had noted it, and had also noted that they knew that he knew that they had noted it.  
  
Mikal smiled at the thought of the headache Seatan must be getting from that.  
  
"Yes," Seatan said slowly. "I think I have."  
  
"What does wearing the Silver mean?" Mikal asked quietly.  
  
"It means," Seatan said slowly, figuring out that it was Mikal who wore the Silver and not some nameless friend that all boys who need advice seem to have. "That you have more psychic power at your disposal than anyone in the history of the Blood. Draca and Lorn, I believe, wore the Bronze. But no one's ever worn the Silver."  
  
"Yes," Mikal persisted. "But what does it mean?"  
  
"Do you wear the Gold Ring?" Sylvia asked suddenly.  
  
He blushed. She nodded knowingly. He knew that she knew about Llyia. And she knew that he knew that she knew.  
  
"In that case," Seatan said. He knew, too. "You wear the Gold Ring but don't have the psychic strength to wear the Gold Jewel. That's what it means."  
  
Mikal smiled. "I wear the Silver."  
  
9/Kealeer  
  
Lady Llyia and Prince Rhys stumbled out of the woods. Out of Dea al Mon. Out of their homeland. Their entire family had been slaughtered, as well as most of the people in their mother's Court. They didn't know what had happened to their parents. Perhaps they had escaped, perhaps not. If they had, they would make for SaDiablo Hall in Dhelman Kealeer. So that's where the Gray-Jeweled Queen and her twin brother headed next, turning their back for the last time on the place they had once called home.  
  
Beale, the Red-Jeweled Warlord that the Hall employed as a butler, answered the insistent knocking. The huge wooden door creaked its way open, permitting the two visitors to see the great hall that lay beyond the threshold. One of them, a Red-Jeweled Dea al Mon Warlord Prince, shuddered.  
  
Beale glanced at the two, his stoic expression hiding his disapproval at the dried blood being tracked into the Hall. But if they had blood all over them, something serious must be going on. And they both looked exhausted, both psychically and physically drained.  
  
Beale beckoned them to follow him, ignoring their startled faces as they saw the wooden gargoyle standing before the entrance with its tongue sticking out and its eyes crossed.  
  
Seatan stood up, surprised to see Llyia and Rhys, especially in their present condition. Mikal stood up faster, knocking his chair over in the process, and nearly sending the table crashing down with it. Sylvia just raised an eyebrow at him.  
  
"Llyia!" he cried. "What happened?"  
  
She stared at him for a moment, then threw herself into his arms, sobbing. He rubbed her back gently, letting her cry out all her tears while he murmured soothing nothings in her ear.  
  
10/Kealeer  
  
Jeanelle sat in her room, an Ebon lock on the door, a tangled web sitting in its frame on the table. The Twilight's Dawn was woven into the center. She didn't wear the Twilight's Dawn; there was only one person who could wear it. But she could use it.  
  
And now, in her tangled web, she saw something Surreal hadn't seen: the Queen of Ebon Askavi by herself couldn't stop the war. But with the help of the Queen of Kea Askavi…  
  
For remembrance. As a reminder.  
  
Seatan knocked gently on the door. He heard the click of the physical lock, felt the undoing of the Ebon lock. Slowly, half-afraid, he opened the door.  
  
Jeanelle had summoned him here, telling him she had something to show him. She hadn't said what; whether it was good or bad she had left a mystery. He wasn't sure he could cope with whatever she would show him.  
  
Seatan walked in, saw Jeanelle sitting at the table in front of a tangled web, saw the familiar walls and carpets and drapes. He saw nothing out of the ordinary.  
  
Relieved, he turned to face her. Standing behind the table were five males, two of whom he had watched grow up from a distance, never allowed to do more than observe; two of whom he had helped grow up, teaching them his code of honor and ingraining in them the true ways of the Blood. The fifth he had known, but only as a small boy.  
  
These were his sons: Mephis, Peyton, Jeremy, Deamon and Lucivar. All had returned to the Darkness.  
  
Jeremy had been murdered as a child by his mother Hekatah. He had just had his Birthright Ceremony. He had worn the Summer-sky.  
  
"Hello, father," Jeremy's ghost whispered. "Its nice to finally meet you."  
  
"Yes," Seatan replied in a chocked voice. "It is." He turned to his two oldest sons. "How are you?"  
  
"Fine, father. Just fine," Mephis replied.  
  
"A little dull, a little gloomy, but then, hey: I'm dead!" Peyton cried. He had always been a joker.  
  
Seatan then turned to his youngest son. "Lucivar. How did you die?"  
  
"Well, I finally found who murdered my wife. It was a group of Hayllians and Chaillots. And you'll never guess who was leading them." Seatan didn't even try to guess. "Prince Phillip Alexander." Seatan stifled a gasp. Jeanelle's father, who must have been demon-dead, or at least in his seventies, which was old for a Chaillot. "Anyway," Lucivar continued. "To make a long story short, he managed to kill me." He bared his teeth in a feral grin. "It took a lot of help, though."  
  
Finally, Seatan turned to Seatan Deamon SaDiablo II. "And how are you, namesake?"  
  
He met his son's golden eyes, filled with a knowledge that brought with it a haunted, desperate look. "I read the web," he whispered. "The Weaver of Dreams' web." Seatan frowned. The Weaver of Dreams had returned to the Darkness. "She showed me. But something happened. Surreal wasn't supposed to die."  
  
"Surreal's dead?" Seatan managed to gasp out.  
  
"She's not supposed to be," Deamon whispered. "Something went wrong. She's dead, but she's not supposed to be."  
  
Jeanelle looked at her husband's ghost. "It's all right," she whispered. "It'll be all right." She glanced helplessly at Seatan. Deamon looked down at her, then fell to his knees in front of her.  
  
"Sweetheart – why? Why did the Weaver show me her web? I know everything that will happen. But I'm not supposed to. The web said that I knew nothing."  
  
"Maybe the web's wrong."  
  
"But she's the Weaver. She can't be wrong. Her webs can't be wrong!  
  
"But that would mean that you really know nothing and that Surreal's alive."  
  
"Maybe…" Deamon's eyes widened. "Maybe she is! Maybe she's returned from the Darkness, like the Weaver!" He scrambled to his feet. "I have to leave, now. Perhaps I'll be back." His transparent form winked out like a light.  
  
Seatan watched in awe as his other sons followed suit. Then he pulled up a chair next to Jeanelle. "Witch-child?" he whispered. "Why did you do that? I know how painful it must be for you to see Deamon again…"  
  
"No, it's all right," she insisted. "I had to know what he knew."  
  
"Oh? And what did he know?"  
  
"Surreal's returned from the Darkness."  
  
"Is that significant?"  
  
"More than you know," Witch whispered.  
  
11/Kealeer  
  
Lorn, Rose, Jordan and Arnar stood in front of SaDiablo Hall in Dhelman Kealeer, awed by its immensity. As they walked up the long drive, Lorn felt memories, suppressed by years of slavery, stir inside him. Climbing that tree with Carrie. Hiding under that bush from his mother with his uncle Falonar. Chasing Aunt Surreal through that meadow. Laughing good- naturedly at Arnar's first wobbly steps under the weeping willow. Uncle Falonar and Uncle Lucivar getting drunk and getting into a catfight in that tangle of brush. Strolling with father and mother through that stand of trees. Seatan and Sylvia getting married in that field. Riding bareback on Sundancer, the kindred horse, outstripping even Graysfang the wolf and Ladvarian the dog. Kealas and his sons, KeaAskavi and KeaEbony, playing with him, running with him.  
  
Rose smiled as she saw the light flashing in Lorn's sapphire eyes. She and Jordan had never been here before, but to Lorn and Arnar, it was home.  
  
A Red-Jeweled Warlord, dressed in the outfit of a butler, opened to finely carved wooden door. Lorn stared at him, spluttering, searching for a name. "Beale!"  
  
Arnar shook his head, patted Beale's shoulder sympathetically, and walked in. The others followed as the Eyrien wound his way through various passages, hallways and corridors, finally coming to rest in front of a plain white door. Rose brushed her hand against the doorframe. The was something familiar about the psychic scent of the person who lived in that room. Her hands slid down to find the doorknob, twisted it, and pushed to the door open.  
  
Inside, seated at a broad, cherry-wood writing desk was a man at the end of his prime, still tall, still handsome, still well muscled. Next to him was a woman in her early forties, golden hair shining in the afternoon sun that seeped through the window, her sapphire eyes those of a person who has walked the most twisted paths of Hell and survived.  
  
She was so damn familiar, but Rose couldn't remember where she had seen the woman before.  
  
Lorn was staring at her, speechless. Arnar was grinning. The woman, her face carefully neutral, stood.  
  
"Mother?" Lorn whispered. "Mother, it's me. Lorn."  
  
She smiled at him, her weary face brightening infinitely. Wordlessly, he enfolded her in a bear hug, his eyes moist. Looking over his shoulder, she glanced first at Jordan, then at Rose, then at Arnar. Her eyes finally came to rest on Rose.  
  
She pushed away from Lorn, her eyes still riveted on the girl. "Rose?" she whispered. "Rose, is that you?"  
  
"Yes," Rose replied carefully, almost sarcastically. "Who else would I be?"  
  
"Roselia DiAngelo," the woman said, spacing out the syllables, as if she couldn't believe her eyes.  
  
"Yes," she said again, slowly.  
  
"But…" the woman stammered. "You died over thirty years ago!"  
  
12/Kealeer  
  
Mikal, Sylvia, Llyia and Rhys sat in Seatan's private study, somewhere underneath the complex maze of passages that made up SaDiablo Hall. Llyia let Mikal hold her, let him run his hand gently up and down her arm. Her mind had blotted out what her twin was saying, sinking into a dazed reverie. It really was too bad Mikal only wore the Summer-sky, and was unlikely to descend to a darker Jewel after he made the Offering to the Darkness. What would people think if she, a Gray-Jeweled Queen, accepted a Summer-sky-Jeweled Warlord as a Consort? But he was sweet. And so caring and gentle and – she brought her thoughts up short, unwilling to let them go too far in that direction. Mikal was a wonderful friend, nothing more. She opened her eyes and focused on what her brother was saying once more.  
  
"…And so we decided to come here." Too bad, it was the end of the story. She wished for a moment that she'd been awake enough to put in some of her own comments, but she was so tired, and Mikal's shoulder was so comfortable, his hand on her arm so soothing – she jerked upright, shaking her head fiercely. Stop thinking like that! she berated herself. What would people think? It would be a scandal!  
  
Mikal sat up with her, his golden eyes full of concern, his brow knitted. "What's wrong?" His voice was so caring, his eyes reflecting his – her thoughts ground to a halt again, before they got to the word "love." She snarled at him, shifting closer to Rhys.  
  
Sylvia – damn that woman – just smiled. Rhys looked at his sister, his blue eyes filled with concern. But he patted her on the shoulder, and stood to leave. Sylvia followed.  
  
"Are you all right?" Mikal asked. She nodded. Damn him, couldn't he tell that it was him she wanted to get away from? Of course, Sylvia and Rhys had known that too, that as why they had left. Damn them, too. She edged further away from him, hoping that a stretch of empty couch might keep him at bay. "What is it?" Mikal asked. Mother Night, he was sweet. And thoughtful. And wonderful. "Is it me?" he asked dejectedly, his shoulders slumping.  
  
Yes, you blithering idiot! Of course it's you! "No, of course not."  
  
His head lifted enough for her to see the hope shining in his eyes. Damn him, why did he have to be so handsome when he was hopeful? "Well, Llyia, I…uh…have something to tell you."  
  
That you love…her mind choked on the word…me? Please, no. I already know, don't tell me. Please, don't.  
  
"I made the Offering to the Darkness." She sighed in relief. "Have you ever heard of the Metallic Jewels?" She tensed again. "Well, neither had I until I made the Offering. They're extremely powerful. They don't have to follow the same rules as the normal Jewels, like shields and locks. Even the Black." She gritted her teeth. A Consort that powerful…no, if she ever allowed herself to want him, she'd want him for him, not for his strength. "I wear the Silver Jewel."  
  
"And what Ring do you wear, Warlord?" she asked, sliding closer to him. He looked at her, the hope and the…love shining in his eyes.  
  
"I wear the Gold." And, as if just to prove it, he kissed her. And damn him, he was one hell of a kisser.  
  
13/Kealeer  
  
"What are you saying?" Rose whispered, her violet eyes narrowing. "And who in the name of Hell are you?" Wait…Lorn's mother. Jeanelle, Witch. She's your mother. Witch. Damn. You died over thirty ears ago.  
  
"You're Roselia DiAngelo. You were at Briarwood."  
  
"Briarwood?"  
  
"Yes," Jeanelle insisted. "Uncle Bobby slit your throat. You died."  
  
"Thirty years ago? But I'm only eighteen."  
  
"No. You died. Thirty years ago at Briarwood."  
  
"No. I didn't. I'm not who you think I am."  
  
"You're Roselia DiAngelo. You were a Queen from a lower-class Chaillot family, but your father was Dhelman. You were sent to Briarwood when you were eleven, and you were killed by Robert Benedict, my uncle, when you were twelve."  
  
"No. That never happened to me! I'm not who you think I am, dammit!"  
  
"Briarwood is the pretty poison. There is no cure for Briarwood," Witch whispered. She stretched her arm out towards Rose, her hand slowly opening. Instinctively, Rose reached to grab what fell out of that hand. A black rose alighted on her palm; its single thorn pricked her finger.  
  
"Hurry! This way. Hurry! They're too strong. Kartane and Uncle Bobby are letting him draw on their strength. He's got the room shielded so I can't get through."  
  
"Where?" A young Halliyan woman, gold-green eyes, pointed ears, and a Gray Jewel blazing around her neck.  
  
Pointing at the wall. "Can you make the pass?"  
  
Pain and confusion, rage and despair. And courage. "Why isn't she fighting back?"  
  
"Too many medicines. She's in the misty place and she can't get out. Please help her. We don't want her to die. We don't want her to be like us!"  
  
She pulled a knife out of its sheath. It was a golden-handled stiletto, its blade sharp and gleaming. Adorning the crosspiece was a crest of two golden stags, their horns intertwining at base of the handle. A Dea al Mon knife.  
  
In the moonlight, the lawn was a ghostly silver, rippled by the wind. Throughout the hot midsummer's day, storm clouds had been piling up on the horizon, and thunder had rumbled in the distance.  
  
Trying to feel the ghostly presence, trying to see the transparent shape. "You won't find her. Marjane is gone."  
  
"What happened to her?"  
  
Shrug. "She faded. All the old ghosts have finally returned to the Darkness. Why are you here?"  
  
"I came to say goodbye. I'm leaving Chaillot in the morning—and I'm not coming back."  
  
"If you hold my hand, maybe you'll be able to see Dannie. I don't know how Jeanelle always saw the ghosts. Even after I became a demon, I couldn't see the oldest ones unless she was here. She said that was because this was one of the living Realms." They walked toward the vegetable garden. "Is Jeanelle all right?"  
  
"I don't know. She was hurt very badly. A witch at Cassandra's Altar took her away to a safe place. She might have reached a Healer in time."  
  
The girl swinging from the noose tied to the tree's perfect branch stared back from empty sockets. "That's Marjane. She told an uncle once that she couldn't stand the sight of him, so they smeared honey on her eyes and hung her there. She wasn't supposed to die, but she struggled so much when the crows came and pecked out her eyes, the knot slipped and the noose killed her.  
  
"I've walked among the cildru dyathe. Hell doesn't frighten me."  
  
"She's too old to be one of us."  
  
"This is Rose. She's demon-dead."  
  
"It's not so bad. Except I can only cause trouble now after the sun goes down. And when I tickle the lollipop, it makes them feel so queer."  
  
"This is the carrot patch. This is where they bury the redheads."  
  
Two girls sat side by side in blood-soaked dresses.  
  
"They don't have any hands."  
  
"Myrol wasn't behaving for an uncle when he hurt her. Rebecca hit him to make him stop hurting Myrol, and when he hit Rebecca, Myrol started hitting him, too."  
  
Another girl in a bloody dress. So common, here.  
  
"This is Dannie. They served her leg for dinner one night."  
  
Rose stared hard at the black rose clutched in her hands, at the blood welling up from the cut it had made, her teeth gritted, trying not to cry. She remembered, but it couldn't be true. Then how did she remember so much? …Briarwood is the pretty poison. There is no cure for Briarwood.  
  
She looked up into Witch's sapphire eyes, then back at the rose. There is no cure for Briarwood.  
  
14/Kealeer  
  
Surreal gasped as she felt her heart flutter and start to beat again, after nearly fifteen years. She fell to her knees, fighting back the dizziness and nausea, clutching at her stomach. She only vaguely realized that the gaping wound that had killed  
  
her – again – was gone, as was the open wound across her throat. She gritted her teeth and drew a breath, whimpering at the stinging sensation of her lungs expanding. She braced herself against the wall and slowly stood.  
  
"This can't happen!" cried a squeaking voice. Surreal glanced around sharply, but the alley was empty. She returned her concentration to breathing. Out of idle curiosity, she glanced down at the Gray Jewel on her finger, wondering if it was still intact. It gave her a start when she saw it was still undamaged. Not only that, but it wasn't fully drained.  
  
"How is this happening?" the squeaky voice cried, startling Surreal again. The Black Widow gritted her teeth, trying to remember that she couldn't start strangling people until she could breathe right.  
  
"Where are you?" she gasped.  
  
"Why, I'm right here, in front of your face!" the voice exclaimed, as though it were obvious.  
  
Surreal thought for one fleeting moment that in return for her life, her eyesight had somehow been damaged. But that passed when she noticed a thin whisper of a figure floating not three inches from her nose. "Who are you?"  
  
"I am Hagely Moriston James Albeilwich Dorchester Maryianas Hortuchio Fuglewurp Lagley Dennis Tobias III, but you may call me Tobias. Pleased to make your acquaintance," the wraith said stuffily, extending an insubstantial hand. Surreal moved to take the hand, but inhaled sharply when liquid fire ran up and down her arm, and she quickly pulled the arm back. After being dormant for over a decade, her muscles didn't like being moved so quickly. "Isn't it exhilarating to be alive?" Tobias asked.  
  
"Uh-huh," Surreal grumbled sarcastically as she slid to her knees again. "What were you saying about something not being able to happen?"  
  
"Well, you died. Dead people should not be able to live again. After all, look what life is doing to you, and after being dead for only a short decade and a half." The wraith sniffed.  
  
"What are you?" Surreal asked him, looking up at his insubstantial form floating above her.  
  
"I am a ghost."  
  
"What's a ghost?"  
  
"Someone who has gathered enough psychic energy to return from the Darkness, but not to their corporeal forms. You need far more power than I have to return to your body after dying a full death."  
  
"I did," Surreal noted clinically, wishing she had stayed dead. She found, oddly, that she was hungry.  
  
"What did you wear?" Tobias asked, looking with concern at the witch, who was still trying to regulate her breathing.  
  
"Hmm?"  
  
"What Jewel did you wear when you were alive?"  
  
"The Gray."  
  
Tobias shook his head. "No, you'd need far more psychic energy than that to return to your body. Well, come on, we'd best get you to a doctor."  
  
"Doctor?"  
  
"Yes, doctor. Come on."  
  
Surreal threw the apple up in the air and caught it as it came down, taking a huge bite and licking her lips. "Isn't it exhilarating to be alive?" she asked, quoting Tobias' earlier observation.  
  
"I wouldn't know," the ghost said, shaking his head sadly.  
  
"All right, it's time for you to tell me who you are, or were, where you came from, and why you chose to bother me, of all people."  
  
"Bother you, is it?" Tobias exclaimed indignantly. "I'll have you know that you would be dead right now if it hadn't been for me getting you to that doctor!"  
  
"Oh?"  
  
"Yes, most people don't make the transition from death to life. They usually burn out in the process, and very few people are even given the chance. You have to have more psychic energy than Black to make that transition."  
  
"More than Black?" Surreal took another bite of the apple and tossed it away. Then she paused. "Who was I, again?"  
  
Tobias gasped. "It's true! They were right! Oh, wonderful!" Surreal's eyes narrowed. "No, don't worry, I'll tell you. You were born in Chaillot, in a broken-down back-alley, to a Dea al Mon Queen named Titian…" He went on to tell her all about her life, from her mother's death right up to her own. And the whole time, she ignored that her finely tuned instincts, still sharp despite years of being dead, were screaming at her that something was wrong. And she also didn't realize that Tobias had easily steered her away from who he was.  
  
15/Kealeer  
  
Jeanelle threw an Ebony aural shield on the room, preventing anyone from hearing what she and Seatan were saying. She didn't know if the Gold could break through an Ebony shield, but she had to take the chance.  
  
"Rose can't be alive," Seatan insisted, slamming his fist down on the desk.  
  
"No," Jeanelle disagreed. "I've heard of this before. A few people, who have great psychic strength, are able to gather together enough psychic energy after having returned to the Darkness to return to their bodies. Or if they have help from someone else who has that kind of psychic strength."  
  
"Exactly how much psychic strength are we talking about?" Seatan inquired.  
  
"More than twenty times your strength and my son's combined.." 


End file.
